The Evil Angel
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Sequel to "The Second Face". Mark, very different now from the boy that visited his blonde cousin in Maine, is getting to like who he is now. Trouble is, he's all by himself. He misses his cousin, who offers a simple solution to a complicated problem.
1. Chapter 1- Brothers Parting

**Chapter I- Brothers Parting**

* * *

It was 3:55 in the afternoon; Mark Evans was supposed to have left his Uncle Wallace and Aunt Susan's house at 3:00, when his father Jack had gotten here. There was a very simple reason why they hadn't left yet; Mark was stalling. These two weeks had just gone by too fast- it was unfair. Mark hadn't felt so cheated by Father Time in years, perhaps in his whole life. Consumed with grief- and self-doubt and blame- over the passing of his mother after months of illness, he'd had to see his father leave too, going off to Japan on a business trip he couldn't put off or avoid.

But things had changed. Mark, alone and quite miserable, had experienced a wonderful thing. He'd made a friend.

Henry Evans, Mark's blonde-haired, ice-blue-eyed cousin from Rockbridge, Maine, was a boy who took some getting used to. He was wise and insightful far beyond his years, strong due to his love for regular exercise. Henry could be kind and generous if he chose, but he was harsh and unforgiving to anyone who crossed him. Early on, Mark had begun to worry about Henry, not at all comfortable with the views he began sharing with Mark- or the way Henry liked to have fun most of the time. He was meaner than hell when he wanted to be; Henry was like no other twelve-year-old boy Mark had ever met.

But he didn't worry about that, the way he used to.

Mark wasn't quite sure what had happened; Henry said Mark fell and struck his head while they were exploring the cavernous interior of Fleetwood Hall, a titanic estate that stood alone and ignored in the gentle foothills at Rockbridge's western outskirts, Rockbridge itself being part of the outer Portland area. Mark figured he must have taken a pretty good fall; even now he remembered next to nothing of the experience. But Mark did know that Henry had taken care of him; when Mark woke up, they were back in the grand entrance hall, Mark propped up on an ancient leather couch off to one side of the enormous room. Henry was sitting on the floor, arms crossed and held tight to his chest as he shivered, watching Mark; the darker-haired of the two cousins had been lying there on the couch for some time, wearing both his and Henry's winter jackets.

They'd made their way home soon after that, Henry brushing off Mark's thanks rather shyly. Slipping under the imperious wrought-iron front gates just as they'd come in, Henry and Mark began the hour-long walk across town to get back home. During that walk, they'd walked and talked, gradually coming to feel such warm companionship that they barely noticed the cold.

Henry kept asking Mark if he was all right, and Mark at least once had to ask that of Henry; his blonde-haired cousin had looked unusually tired, almost drained by the experience. He brushed it off when Mark asked, but the dark-haired boy ended up assuming that Henry had been forced to carry Mark all the way back to the front doors from the Glass Library on the fourth floor of Fleetwood Hall. That certainly explained it; carrying someone over your shoulders that far would tire anybody.

The two boys got home well after dark; Henry didn't say just how long they'd been at the house, or how long Mark had been out- but he did say "a while", and the way he said it, Mark got a sense the delay had been more than thirty minutes. Wallace and Susan were both up, pacing the living room floor and anxiously waiting for the boys' return. When the two had knocked at the front door, Wallace had been angry enough that he yelled at Henry and Mark for making their parents- and aunt and uncle- worry so much. The two boys had hung their heads, said their apologies, and true to their word never been late like that again during Mark's visit.

That last week had gone by so fast. Mark hadn't had so much fun in years, and he felt closer to Henry- more like one of the brothers Henry had said they could be- every day. They would spend hours going places together- visiting the rail yard that passed through town, going down to the nearby district of Rockport and watching the fishing boats go out and come in, smoking cigarettes where the adults couldn't see them, and so much more.

Mark and Henry even went to work on the treehouse out back with a passion, finishing it and even setting up plans to install removable plastic 'windows' and perhaps even a door. It took many hours of hard work out in the cold, but it was worth it. It was the best damn tree house Mark or Henry had ever seen. They might not be using it much in the coming years; the boys would be turning 13 soon, and it would all just be uphill from there. No more playing childish games or smoking in the treehouse; they'd be in the big leagues then. Driving, drinking, fucking, shoving nerds out of their way in the halls- the more Mark and Henry talked about it, the more they looked forward to it. All they needed to do was wait. They had no reason to believe they'd be any stronger or faster than the boys around them at school; no way of knowing just when puberty's changes would begin. But there was always a way of getting what you wanted; Mark understood that now. Henry had told him all about it, proving yet again how knowledge truly was power.

But today was the end of Mark's stay at his cousin's house; the end of something very good. He felt like he'd only just truly met Henry, and now he had to leave. It just wasn't fair.

Mark sighed as he zipped up the duffel bag he was taking with him; Henry, using his persuasive skills to the fullest, had convinced his parents to take them out shopping; Mark now owned a whole set of new clothes, the best he'd ever owned. While Mark had stayed at home to watch Connie another afternoon of Mark's final week in Maine, Henry had gone out with his father to get Mark's presents for Christmas. Mark was of course not allowed to see what had been found for him, but Henry promised Mark he'd get a real present from his cousin before leaving.

That time seemed to have come. Mark was just finishing zipping up the emerald green sports duffel bag when Henry tapped him on the shoulder; his cousin was superbly dressed in a ruby red sweater and khaki pants. He was smiling warmly. "Here," he said, handing Mark a small wooden box. "I got two of 'em. So we can be brothers."

Mark smiled as he took the box Henry was holding out; he remembered that moment, too. Henry had given him a white plaster mask when they'd first met, telling him those very words. It amazed Mark how in just two weeks, those words already rang true.

"Well, go on," Henry chuckled, seeing Mark space out a bit as he thought back and remembered. "Open it."

The darker-haired boy did, taking the cover off and gasping a little as he saw what lay underneath.

"Early Christmas present, Mark," Henry said. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Mark breathed, barely above a whisper. Inside the box, lying in imprints made in a rectangle of dark, velvet-like padding were two identical black-handled knives. Henry adroitly snatched one up, pointed it away from himself and pressed a small button; with a sharp snick a blade that had to be six inches in length snapped out. Mark stared, entranced; the blade's steel gleamed like a mirror. There wasn't a spot or a flaw to be found; Mark had never seen anything so beautiful.

Henry wisely folded his up and pocketed it, then placed the cover of the box back on Mark's; he could hear somebody coming up the stairs. Small feet, light and bounding; Henry frowned in annoyance. Connie.

"Henry! Mark!" Connie chirped, halting at the doorway.

"What?" Henry said neutrally, moving towards his sister as Mark placed that last item in his bag, zipping it closed again.

"Dad says Uncle Jack's ready to go; you guys need to come down soon!"

"We're coming," Henry said dismissively, already turning away.

Connie paused uncertainly; these two had been stalling for a while now, and Jack really did need to get going. Maine to Arizona was a three-day drive at the very least; not something you wanted to start at the end of the day. "Make sure Mark and Henry get down here," was what Wallace had said. And yet it looked like the two boys were gonna try to stall for time again.

"But Dad said-" Connie said, starting to object. Henry cut her off. "Listen," he said, an edge of steel coming into his voice, "I _said_ we'll be down there. Just wait."

Connie crossed her arms and pouted. "We've _been_ waiting!"

"He said, wait! So _wait_!" Mark snapped, looking over at her impatiently.

The blonde-haired girl stared; Mark had _never_ talked like that before. She looked from one boy's face to the next, from Henry's cold blue eyes to Mark's gray-blue ones, which held a sternness she'd never noticed before. She glanced from one boy's face to the other, and for the first time realised she couldn't tell which was which. The eyes were similar in colour, held the same ill-concealed look of annoyance, and their expressions were set to match.

"Fine!" Connie said, turning and bounding back down the stairs. She'd come up there and told those two what she was supposed to tell them. Let them get in trouble with Mom and Dad if they wanted to!

Back in Henry's room, Mark's cousin sighed. "I guess we better go, man," he said reluctantly. "Dad's gonna have a fit if we're up here much longer."

"Yeah," Mark nodded. "Guess so." Then he smirked a bit. "Can't have that, right?"

"No indeed," Henry replied, that same sly smile on his lips. He enjoyed these moments between himself and Mark; it was like they understood each other so well these days, words were sometimes just a formality. Neither of them much cared if the adults downstairs got annoyed at their delaying or not; neither Mark nor Henry had expected they'd enjoy these past two weeks so much, but all things had to end. Unfortunately.

Finally, Henry started for the stairs, picking up Mark's backpack as his cousin hefted the duffel. "Come on, _brother_," Henry said with a smile. "Let's go. They're waiting for us."

As they made their way down the stairs, Henry turned slightly to Mark, eyeing him and judging the distance carefully- then he kicked his cousin behind the left knee, letting out an almost theatrical "Whoops!" as Mark toppled and fell on the duffel bag. But Mark, not to be outdone, threw himself into a roll, tumbling right on down the stairs and towards Henry, pulling the surprised blonde down with him.

"Mark! Henry!" Susan cried, hurrying towards the stairs and then backing away as the tangled mess of boys and luggage came tumbling down the stairs towards her. Jack and Wallace, having been sitting across from each other in the living room nearby, turned their heads at the sound, then jumped up and hurried over. They stopped abruptly, though, and in spite of themselves couldn't help but smile.

The two boys were rolling around on the landing, wrestling amidst Mark's dropped bags and laughing.

"See, Jack?" Wallace said quietly, smiling a little. "I told you a few weeks here would do him some good. He's doing fine."

Jack gazed down at his son and nephew as they wrestled on the landing; alternately growling with mock fierceness and laughing, they hadn't been bothered by the fall down the stairs a bit. There'd be a few bruises later, perhaps, but neither twelve-year-old seemed to mind. They were boys, and right now held a passing resemblance to a couple of wolf cubs. Jack found the comparison startling; Mark had always been so gentle and passive. Now he looked like he was enjoying the playful physical battle with Henry. It wasn't a side of Mark that Jack was used to.

But maybe this was a result of Mark's stay with Henry, who Jack remembered was a bit more of a fighter, a boy who sometimes liked trading punches as a show of affection. Maybe meeting Henry and spending time with him had brought that out in Mark; in any case, it was something Jack was glad to see. Mark was laughing like he did years ago; before Janice had started her slow, steady decline and finally- just weeks ago still- passed away. It had been a terrible blow to Jack, and to Mark, and Jack had seen it troubling Mark enough that he had truly wished that he didn't have to leave on his business trip to Japan.

Two weeks later, though, Jack saw his son, lively and cheerful, tumbling down a flight of stairs with his cousin and wrestling with him playfully at the bottom. They had probably been having the time of their lives these two weeks; just like Wallace had said.

Jack felt a rush of gratitude towards Wallace and Susan- and to Henry, for so eagerly befriending Mark and doing so much to bring his old self back again. Not even that; Jack could have sworn his son was actually somehow more than he was before. Stronger, more alive. Maybe it was just the stark contrast of the subdued, withdrawn way he'd been two weeks ago after the funeral to the way he was now. Jack was very glad now he'd taken Wallace and Susan's offer; clearly, in leaving Mark with them, he'd done the right thing.

"All right, boys," Susan said, moving in and gently but firmly separating them. "What'd I tell you? Not so rough! You're going to have bruises tonight, Henry! Mark; you, too!"

The two boys stood, still laughing a little. "Sorry, Mom," Henry said, promptly becoming contrite. "We were just having fun."

Mark nodded, grinning and panting. "Let's do that again!"

Susan shook her head, trying hard to be stern but letting a smile through even so. "Boys," she said, and Henry bowed elegantly. "We are, Mom. And just think! We'll be teenagers soon."

All three adults in the entrance hall of the house groaned in perfect unison, making the two boys just smile wider.

"Don't remind me," Wallace said with a mock-pained expression. "When Henry was eleven he wrecked my best camera. Pretty soon he's gonna be wrecking my _car_."

"Wallace," Susan said, "Do you wanna give them ideas?"

"What?" Wallace said, feigning confusion. "Did I say something I shouldn't?"

Mark turned and hefted his bags; Henry again insisted on taking one, now slinging the heavier duffel bag over his shoulder and standing ready to take it out to his Uncle Jack's car. Mark looked towards Jack. "I'm ready to go, Dad."

"You sure?" Jack asked; Mark looked like he didn't quite want to leave.

But Mark nodded, and he appeared remarkably sure of himself. Like he didn't want to leave- but knew he had to. "Yeah," Mark said, and Jack began his goodbyes.

"Wallace," he said, "Susan, I can't thank either of you enough for stepping in and helping me and Mark at a… at a time like this." Jack had some trouble continuing there; even thinking about his wife still greatly troubled him; it hadn't even been a month yet. The wounds hadn't yet had time to heal.

But Susan and Wallace were the picture of understanding. "It was our pleasure," Susan said, meaning every word. "Mark's been great."

"You needed us, Jack," Wallace said, looking at his brother with sympathy. "You and Janice would have done the same for us; I know it. I just wish we could've done more."

Jack shook hands with his brother. "Believe me," he said with a smile and a glance at Mark, "I think you've helped plenty. Mark seems to have had a great time."

"He sure did," Susan smiled, "He's welcome back anytime."

Both boys looked very pleased to hear that.

"Connie!" Jack called, looking at the six-year-old girl in the jeans and sweater who'd been standing next to her mother, observing the proceedings in silence- and throwing Henry a dirty look when she thought nobody was looking.

She hurried over to her Uncle Jack, though, who swept her up and hugged her. "Thanks for looking after Mark, Connie," Jack said.

"Welcome, Uncle Jack!" Connie chirped. She glanced at her mother while Jack held her. "Mom, can we go to Arizona sometime?"

"We might," Susan said. She glanced at Jack. "Of course, Uncle Jack and Mark are always welcome to visit us."

Jack smiled, gently kneeling to let Connie down. "I think we will sometime," he said.

Finally, the moment arrived. "Come on, Mark," Jack said, turning for the door. "Let's get going. Arizona's quite a drive away."

Jack was a little surprised at how Henry so promptly trailed out the door after them, lugging Mark's duffel bag with the occasional grunt as the three walked to Jack's tan Jeep Wrangler.

"Thanks again for helping Mark pick out all those clothes, Henry," Jack said as they went. "That was real nice of you."

"I was glad to," Henry said. He seemed to really mean it.

Jack shivered at the biting cold, in spite of his winter jacket; as he unlocked the back door of the Wrangler's narrow cargo area, he marveled again at his brother's choice of residence; Maine was a tough place to live in the winter. Arizona was a world apart from it.

The two bags were promptly stowed, and Jack took out the Jeep's keys again, jingling them a little as a subtle way of letting the boys know that time had finally come.

Mark and Henry faced each other by the back of the Jeep, locking eyes and regarding one another solemnly. Henry smiled warmly, putting out a hand.

"See you, brother."

Mark took Henry's hand- and pulled him forward, gripping him in a tight bear-hug. Henry followed suit, and the two boys stood that way for some time. Jack, standing nearby, found himself fearing for the boys' ribs.

Finally, the two separated. Henry took of his tan winter coat, the one lined with white fur on the inside. It was his favourite, and he was handing it to Mark now. "Here," Henry said. "For the trip back."

Surprised and pleased, Mark smiled back. "Thanks!"

"Henry," Jack said uncertainly, "Are you sure about this?"

Henry nodded. He was sure. "I can get another one," he said.

Finally, they could delay no longer. With one more tight, bone-crushing hug, the boys said their farewells. Mark climbed into the passenger seat of his Dad's Jeep, looking back to wave at Wallace, Susan and Connie, who had come out on the front porch of the house. Then he looked back at Henry, amazed as his cousin stood on the layer of snow covering the lawn, the wind whipping around him and undoubtedly slicing clean through his gray wool pants and Ruby red sweater. Henry must have been freezing out there, but he stood rooted to the spot as his Uncle Jack started the Jeep's engine and drove away, waving from the driveway until the very last moment, when the Jeep finally disappeared from sight.

Driving back down Chamberlain Drive and towards the interstate, Jack largely stayed silent, as he was preoccupied with making sure he got his directions right. The drive back to Arizona would take long enough as it is, even if Jack didn't miss any of the key highway and route entrances and exits.

But Jack did look at Mark now and then; he hadn't seen him for two weeks, and after leaving him in Maine to go on that business trip to Japan, Jack wanted to make up for last time any way that he could. Much like he'd been on the trip up to Maine two weeks ago, Mark didn't say much, seeming rather withdrawn. But the Gameboy he'd buried himself in for half the trip out to Maine was in one of his bags, stowed away and uncalled for. Instead, Mark gazed out the passenger window, watching the snow and ice-covered Maine landscape pass by, as if committing it to memory.

"How we doing, Mark?" Jack said as they turned onto the highway entrance ramp. If nothing else, he wanted to see how Mark would respond.

Two weeks ago, Mark probably would have grunted or muttered some noncommittal response. But today, he just gave a slight shrug, glancing over at his dad and smiling a little. "All right," he said.

"Have a good time staying up here with Uncle Wallace and everybody?"

Now Mark really did smile, a warm and cheerful smile that easily reached his eyes. "Yeah," Mark said, thinking of his cousin, his new friend Henry. "Yeah, I had a great time."

"Great," Jack said, grinning back, so pleased was he at the look of calm and contentment he saw on Mark's face. Today he'd been taken aback by seeing Mark laughing and playing with Henry- after losing Janice, Jack had begun to worry if he'd hear Mark laugh ever again. But Mark had been laughing- and it was real laughter, the sound of a cheerful, happy boy.

The things Jack had seen today brought him a great deal of peace; a sense that, in a way, maybe leaving Mark for these two weeks had been just what the both of them needed. Jack's business was doing better than ever, the deal with the Japanese firm solidly in hand. Wallace had confided over the phone that he was doing some damn good deals on the stock market lately; before long, Wallace said, he would have as much as a 5% stake in Chrysler Corporation. With the bold, dynamic leadership of new CEO David Parr, Chrysler was really headed somewhere, starting to put real emphasis on quality again and leaving the misguided choices of the 80's behind them.

The two men of the family were doing just fine; both Jack and Wallace were moving up steadily in their business careers. Well, really, Wallace _had_ about all he needed; he was just advancing things a little at a time, ensuring a permanently prosperous future for his family. Jack- he was on his way to that. He could tell.

And Mark? Jack's thoughts came back to his son in a hurry, but surprisingly, as they began the drive back down the interstate and on to Arizona, Jack didn't feel very guilty for letting his mind drift towards his and his brother's business careers. The Evans brothers had both suffered tragedy, suffered loss. Just weeks ago, Jack had lost his wife; Wallace, two years ago, had lost his son. But now, things were going right again. And Mark…

Jack cast a glance at Mark, who, seeming a little worn out by his battle with Henry and the two weeks he'd spent exploring a whole new world- for that's what Maine was to Mark- with his cousin, had leaned up against the doorframe and fallen asleep. He was comfortably wrapped in Henry's beautiful and expensive winter coat, using the fur liner of its concealable hood as a pillow. A few strands of Mark's wavy brown hair hung over his face, which looked calm and fully at peace.

_He's doing great_, Jack thought happily, adjusting the Jeep's heater a little and keeping two steady hands on his driving. _My son's doing fine_.


	2. Chapter 2- Back Home

**Chapter II- Back Home**

* * *

The drive back to Arizona had taken about three days, just as Jack had figured; it was an impressive pace given how many states they had to pass through, just like before. Mark didn't seem to mind much. Throughout the drive, he asked about museums along the way, about landmarks and tourist attractions he hadn't seen before- and might not get to see again.

The trip had been the same number of miles, taken the same amount of days and hours, more or less. Yet somehow, Jack returned home to Arizona feeling like they'd done it in half the time. The difference was not in the mileage driven, or the hours passed; Jack had even taken pretty much the same route back that he'd taken up to Maine in the first place. The difference wasn't in any of those things.

Mark was back. _That_ was the difference.

Jack observed Mark over the first week they spent back, marveled at how he had taken such strides in putting his mother's passing behind him. It would not have surprised or even bothered Jack had his son been in mourning longer- Jack knew it would be far more than two weeks before he'd make any real progress with putting Janice's passing behind him. But Jack had no complaints about the steps Mark had made. He had no objections to having a lively, cheerful Mark back again.

_No_, Jack thought more than once, _No_ _complaints there. That's just fine with me_.

But then the day came; it had been four weeks- one month to the day- since Janice Evans' death. The time came for Jack and Mark to go place flowers at Janice's grave.

Mark didn't want to go.

Jack was quite surprised at that; he knew Mark had made some progress in dealing with his mother's passing, and was thankful for it. Mark had been worryingly depressed over it before; now he displayed an almost equally worrying reluctance to go out with his father to pay respects to his mother. He'd been at the funeral, of course- Mark wouldn't have missed that for anything. But when Jack asked if he'd like to come along to the cemetery to leave the flowers, Mark sort of stiffened up, saying he'd rather not.

Those had been his exact words, in fact; "I'd rather not". Mark hadn't spoken the words in a harsh or cold way; nor did he sound indifferent. Reluctant, if anything, but that didn't fit perfectly either. What Jack ultimately decided on was "distant". It made sense, actually; and it explained, in a sense, how Mark had made such progress on dealing with the loss of his mother in so short a time.

Mark, Jack concluded, was still feeling grief over losing his mother. Enough of it, in fact, that he was trying to distance himself from the whole thing. Going out to Maine had put enough literal distance between Mark and his mother's grave that he'd found some chance to focus his mind on other things. The two weeks in Maine, Jack realised, had given his son time to start healing his wounds, but those wounds were only just starting to heal.

Perhaps Mark felt like he needed to stay away for now; maybe he was afraid of losing what ground he'd gained if he did or saw anything too directly. It made sense, if that was Mark's approach. Not only was it actually a somewhat healthy way of dealing with things, Jack figured, but it also explained why he'd talked so much less about Janice since getting back. It wasn't- couldn't be that Mark didn't care anymore. It had to be something else. Maybe all Jack's son needed was that distance. Distance… and time.

Jack made up his mind over it that first week back; he forgave Mark readily, talking it over with his son a little, and nodded internally when Mark's responses more or less matched up with what Jack had figured on. Mark just needed distance, and time. That was all, and Jack understood. He headed out to the cemetery himself, and placed the flowers alone.

He knew Janice understood.

The two Evans cousins must have gotten along quite well; Henry, it seemed, had made quite a friend for Mark. Susan and Wallace had both confided to Jack that the two boys had gone through some rough patches that first week; the overall feeling between them was mixed those first days, as far as any of the adults could tell. But after that? Roses all the way. The boys had bloodied each other up fairly well after Connie's accident on the lake; hearing about that fight they'd had in the hospital that night was quite a shock to Jack. But in a way, each of their actions made sense. Mark had been furious, blaming Henry for Connie's near brush with death. Henry, for his part, had just lain there and taken it, letting Mark beat him up right there in the hallway of the hospital.

Jack had shivered when Susan had told him the story, talking in the living room while the boys were getting Mark packed upstairs. "Go on, Mark!" Henry had yelled. "I deserve it!" And Mark, snarling furiously, had nearly kept on going… but his aggression, it seemed, had gone soon after. The boys had ridden home in Susan's van. They must have patched things up on their own time, though, because gradually, the boys had gotten along better after that. Maybe that's all it had taken; Henry had been too careless about Connie's safety, and Mark, already irritated by other disagreements with Henry, had done something about it.

What made Jack feel rather odd was the tale of Mark in that encounter; he had leapt out of hiding and ambushed Henry in the hospital hallway, having clearly planned his actions out in advance. And that anger, the rage Mark had clearly displayed… Jack had never heard of Mark acting that way before. He'd never attacked a boy in his life. Or anyone, for that matter.

Susan and Wallace were sure the boys had talked things out on their own that night, though- or perhaps the night after that. Besides some minimal effort to suggest Mark be given Richard's room, a suggestion ultimately turned down over the anguish it still caused Susan, Henry and Mark had made no attempt to request that they stop sharing Henry's room. This, in particular, led the adults of the house to believe the boys were working things out their own way. Many times they saw them talking on their own, going places together. By the end of the second week, of course, they were not only getting along steadily, but Henry had been giving Mark impromptu karate lessons.

And that led right into Jack's next observation about the new Mark. And that seemed to be the most appropriate term; Mark, sometimes, seemed like a different boy now. He was still Jack's son, and there was no disputing that in the older man's mind. But Mark was different. That, too, was indisputable. Jack recalled, now, hearing from Wallace what an independent boy Henry was; he was always working on something on a work bench, out in the shed- Henry was good with his hands and liked being alone at times. Mark had shared some of Henry's somewhat-introverted nature even before Janice had passed away, so that in itself wasn't entirely unusual.

What was, instead, was another side of Henry Jack now recalled hearing about- Henry had a certain preoccupation, to say the least, with violence. So many of the models, pictures and posters decorating his room had a military or war-related theme, and Henry loved the martial nature of soccer and was a devoted student at his karate school. More than once Wallace, who had enrolled Henry on his own initiative but been surprised at how fast Henry had gotten to like it, had suggested Mark, too, be enrolled in a karate school. Jack had given that some consideration, but he never asked Mark- his son just didn't seem to have much interest in such things. Jack had wondered about that; why Mark seemed rather shy when Jack had tried testing the waters by talking some about the common ground Henry and Mark had in playing soccer, and mentioning how Henry did karate lessons, too.

That shyness, that hesitation; whatever it was, it certainly was gone now. Two weeks after returning from Maine, Mark had surprised Jack by approaching him one evening. Of all things, Mark had been the one to start out by bringing up Henry's karate lessons, and stated- and that was the way he'd done it, too, Jack realised; not so much asked as stated- that he be enrolled in karate lessons himself. Jack had promised to look into it, and meant it; but his business work, though going well, kept him very busy.

Thus, Mark had surprised Jack yet again by coming back to Jack's home office a couple of days later, repeating his desire to attend karate classes like Henry- in fact, he'd almost demanded it this time. Mark's forwardness in wanting to attend self-defense classes the way his cousin did was startling to Jack; Henry must have not only gotten Mark interested in physical, even violent activities like karate, but also taught him some things about confidence and self-assurance, too. Mark was showing signs of self-confidence, of an ability to hold his ground, that he hadn't before. He still gave the impression of a boy who would rather not get in a fight- but once or twice Jack wondered if, the way he acted sometimes now, Mark wouldn't stand his ground if a fight was to happen. Regardless, even, of what his prospects for winning were.

Again, though, Jack had no complaints. If Henry had imparted some of his cool, intelligent self-assurance to Mark, that was just fine. Mark was hardly a weak or incapable boy before, but he was at the very least more… independent, now. More interested in taking care of himself, of taking charge of his own affairs. Talking on the phone with Wallace or Susan now and then, Jack was unsurprised to learn that Henry indeed was much the same way; confident, yes, and unusually independent for his age.

_No complaints from me_, was Jack's common refrain. What was there to complain about? Mark was growing up, and if Henry had helped him to really start doing it, taught his cousin some things that, after all, really were worth knowing… what was there to complain about?

What, indeed?

So, finding no reason to object- and agreeing with Wallace's assertion that the lessons would be a good thing for Mark to focus his mind on, keeping him in his current direction of starting to move away from his mother's death, and move on- Jack had enrolled his son Mark in karate lessons. There, through just the first two weeks, Mark had surprised people- not the least his father- yet again. He'd either been harboring some long-hidden ability in physical combat- Mark was a better-than-average soccer player, after all- or those improvised lessons with Henry had really given Mark a good start. Perhaps both. Whatever the reason, Mark was ranked as a green belt before anybody but his instructor knew it- and Mr. Jennings had told Jack one day how impressed he was with the boy. He didn't see younger students who learned this quickly, or were so eager to learn more, very often.

Those two changes were plenty to get used to, by themselves. And Mark, something of a creature of habit much like his father, had never seemed like somebody who would make so many significant changes, so quickly. And Mark had a bit of a clever streak Jack also hadn't noticed before; when asked about these changes, about how long he'd been harboring his interest in karate for example, Mark just smiled a little and shrugged it off. It was almost like he knew why Jack was asking, but figured he'd rather dodge the question anyway. Jack let it go. Again, it was likely all just the effect of two things; Mark adjusting to life after his mother's death, and his new- and strong- friendship with his cousin Henry.

And the two were nothing if not good friends; it wasn't long before Jack noticed either Mark or Henry was calling the other on an almost daily basis. When Susan called on Christmas Day, Mark talked with everyone at the Evans house in Maine- Susan, then Wallace, and even Connie- but he was on the line with Henry for what had to have been an hour.

This phenomenon not only continued into the early days of 1994, but if anything intensified. Jack's phone company must have liked him a great deal, Jack figured; why wouldn't they, when Mark and Henry were conspiring to be some of their most loyal customers?

This latest development Jack couldn't pass off as easily, not when it started affecting the numbers Jack so prided himself on keeping straight. Normally, he wouldn't have minded, especially since Mark- and Henry, it was safe to assume- was so clearly enjoying the conversations. But while Jack appreciated the beneficial effect it had for Mark- clearly, his son had indeed made a friend back in Maine- the phone bill's increase was a little difficult to just pass off. It wasn't a small number.

On January 10th, Mark returned to school; having finished the 6th grade the previous year, Mark had entered his second year of junior high- 7th grade- this past fall. His first year in junior high would be finishing in just a few months, and Jack was glad to see Mark return to school readily and without much trouble. The phone calls kept up, though, which led to Mark and Jack's first serious fight on the 11th.

Mark got a call after dinner that day, and was on the phone for nearly an hour. Jack, elbow-deep in work in his office in the house, didn't mind- much. Mark needed a friend right now, and if letting Henry be that friend meant paying the increased phone bill, then so be it. But once Mark finally hung up and went back to whatever he'd been doing, Jack got a call from the office.

One of his employees at work was on the line, not in a panic yet but definitely worried. Jack, picking up on this right away, asked what was going on and began to walk the employee through it. An emergency had come up at the office; one of the contractors Jack's firm had planned on hiring to bring in the new sets of printers, computers and so on had messed up good, somehow only delivering half of the ordered equipment. The contractor was promising to have the other half of the shipment brought over to Jack's company within a week, but the employee stressed they couldn't wait a week. It was a bad choice or a worse one; pay the contractor the original price and wait, or find somebody else to do it in a day or two and pay them a lot more.

There was no perfect choice that evening; in fact, there wasn't even a good choice, or a decent one. Jack made the choice he knew he had to, though; he told the employee to pay the contractor for what was delivered, but cancel the rest and order it through another company. They'd have to pay that extra for the upgraded delivery time, but Jack's company had to have those office electronics.

The call ended up taking a tense twenty minutes; Jack nearly forgot to ask, but damn near hit the roof when he asked the employee- Sean Henderson, his second-in-charge at the office- how long he'd been trying to reach Jack. "An hour, at least that long," Henderson said. "The line was busy." Finally, Jack decided he'd drive out and meet Henderson at the office- at the very least, to personally thank him for trying so hard to get the problem solved today. Jack had to show appreciation for that.

"All right," Jack said, standing up as he looked around for his keys and coat. "Just stay there, Henderson. I'll make it up to you; we'll get this straightened out."

The delay in that news reaching Jack had nearly been disastrous; when these moments came up, every minute counted. Henderson had already stayed late at the office trying to reach his boss at home; another ten minutes, and he'd have had to give up, go home, and wait till morning. Delays like that were unacceptable- and all the more so because Mark having been on the phone that whole time had been the only reason. As he threw on his coat, getting ready to head out, Jack called Mark down to his office, and when Jack asked who he'd been on the phone with, the almost insolent expression on Mark's face told him the answer before Mark even spoke.

Then he said, "Henry called; I was talking to him," and Jack hit the roof.

"I just got a call from Henderson at the office, Mark!" Jack exclaimed, too shocked to be truly angry at first. "It was an emergency. He said he was trying to reach me for an _hour_! You _know_ I sometimes have to take business calls at home, don't you? What were you and Henry _talking_ about that whole time?"

Mark, leaning in the doorway, just shrugged; a strange look, hinting at anger just waiting for something to spark it and set it off came into his eyes. "Stuff, I don't know," Mark said, as if the answer was obvious. "We were talking."

Jack stared. "Mark!" he exclaimed, "Didn't you hear the call coming in? Did you even check to see who it was?"

"No," Mark said, "I was talking to Henry," in a tone that implied Henry had a similar importance in Mark's mind to the Pope. The insolence in his voice- something Jack would have sworn before a court he'd never heard from Mark in his life- nearly made Jack explode.

"I can't have calls from my office not getting through!" Jack yelled, tired and frustrated. "Every time something comes up, every time there's an emergency- I _need_ to _know_! I can't have your calls to Henry getting in the way of that!"

"I'm going upstairs," Mark said, pushing off the doorframe, his voice frosty.

Jack sighed, exasperated. "Yes, fine. I've got to go out to the office; Henderson needs my signature on a thing or two. I'll be back in a while."

"Okay," Mark said, already keeping his word and heading around the corner, down the hall and upstairs towards his room. Jack thought about calling after him, but didn't. He turned and headed out the door; this situation at the office needed to be resolved today. As Jack drove out to his office, though, he found himself very unsettled by the argument he'd just had with Mark. Neither of them had ever yelled at the other before; he didn't care for how it made him feel.

Half an hour later- it was about 7:40 then- Jack returned to the house. He parked the Wrangler in the driveway, sighing as he turned off the engine. He had taken care of the situation his company had run into- even with the deal with the Japanese signed and sealed, it seemed like a new crisis came up every day or every week. But Jack knew that didn't excuse getting so fired up. It didn't excuse yelling at Mark- the first time in his life he'd ever done that.

I've got to make things right, Jack thought as he got out of the Wrangler, shut the door and walked up the walkway and into the house. I need to say something to Mark.

Jack made himself take action on that right away, just as soon as he got inside and closed the door; he wanted to let Mark know he felt badly about earlier, while it was still fresh on his mind.

"Mark?" Jack called from the front door of the house. The house had two floors; he wasn't sure if Mark could hear him up there. Or if his son was even listening.

Silence was the only response, but Jack knew his son could hear him. He hung up his coat and made his way upstairs, turning left and heading down the hall to his son's room.

"Mark?" Jack called again cautiously; he hoped he hadn't upset Mark too much earlier. Jack knew he shouldn't have let his temper get the better of him; never, ever could running his company become more important to Jack than his son. That was a mistake too many men had already made before him- and one Jack vowed he would not make himself.

"Yeah, Dad?" Mark answered from his room, and Jack felt a certain relief; Mark's voice sounded a little cautious as well. Like he, too, regretted his earlier words and actions, and just hoped they hadn't carried things too far.

Jack reached the doorway to his son's room; opposite from the doorway was a window with a dresser sitting beneath it, and another window at the end of the room, off to the left. Mark's bed sat in the corner along the same wall as the wooden dresser, and a closet was directly opposite of that. Like most of the house, Mark's room was lined with gray-white, soft and thick carpeting. Mark was lying on his bed, holding up a model submarine and gazing at it; it was a model of the Royal Navy ballistic missile submarine _HMS Vanguard_. Jack, had he known more of Henry's fondness for such symbolic instruments of power, would have known Henry had an identical, hand-carved model in his room. Mark had received the duplicate for Christmas; Henry's persistence in trying to lavish his cousin with gifts for that holiday was a pleasant surprise for everyone involved; Henry had never shown more than minimal interest in such things before.

Mark put down the submarine model, sitting up and moving to the end of his bed to replace it on the stand atop his dresser. Brushing at his wavy brown hair, Mark looked at his father expectantly. He looked like he wanted to say something, but Jack decided he'd better say something first.

"I'm sorry about earlier, Mark," Jack said without preamble as he stood in the doorway. "Running a business is a tough job; I know that, but I shouldn't let it get to me. I didn't mean to get so upset earlier."

Mark got up and wandered over towards his father, his expression rather difficult to read. He then surprised Jack by throwing his arms about Jack's waist, hugging him tightly.

"I'm sorry, too, Dad," Mark said in a somewhat muffled voice.

Surprised and moved, Jack hugged his son back, then after a time gently separated them again. Mark looked up at his father, looking almost mournful. "I didn't mean to cause a problem, Dad," he said. "I just really like talking to Henry. Can I still call him sometimes?"

Jack looked down at his son, hugging him again and then giving the only answer. "Of course," Jack said, feeling all the more ashamed of his earlier anger. "Of course you can. You guys really did hit it off those two weeks, huh?"

"Yeah," Mark said, smiling as he remembered. "We sure did." He hugged Jack again, then looked up at him and smiled a little. "Thanks, Dad."

The two talked for a few minutes more, and Mark surprised his father yet again- he was getting very good at that these days- by asking more than once if everything was all right at work, if the crisis that had come up at the office was now abated. Jack said yes, everything was fine, and Mark readily agreed to Jack's request that he make sure to at least check who it was if calls came in during the future while Mark was on the phone.

Jack went to sleep with remarkable ease that night in January; he felt, yet again, like he was not only getting his son back, but beginning to see a better, more resilient Mark than he'd ever known before. It was a truly wonderful thing to see.

Mark, that night, felt weary. Once he finally said good night to his father- they'd had some popcorn and talked for a while in the kitchen- Mark wandered back to his room, feeling nothing if not worn out. He couldn't quite explain why; perhaps today had simply served to illustrate how important Henry's friendship had become to him. And how much he missed being with his cousin, his friend- or maybe, to use Henry's assertion upon meeting Mark, his brother.

Mark stripped to his jeans and lay down on his bed; in further imitation of Henry, Mark also dropped to the floor and did 10 pushups before actually lying down for the night. In just 18 days Mark would be thirteen years old; in countless cultures the world over, that- not age 18- marked a boy's passage into the beginning of the years of manhood. Mark found himself excited these days when he thought of those times to come. High school- getting to drive, maybe smoke or drink… and girls! Mark liked _that_ idea a lot. He wasn't at that point yet… but soon. For now, Mark went to sleep easily enough- but not before wishing he really was Henry's brother, and that he instead lived with him back in Maine.


	3. Chapter 3- New Ways

**Chapter III- New Ways**

* * *

School resuming meant Mark seeing his old friends and teachers again; one of the better of the former was Alan Parks. He and Mark played together on the school soccer team, and had gotten along well in elementary school, too. Alan had also been sincerely sympathetic towards Mark when he'd heard his mother had first been sick, then passed away; Mark remembered that, and appreciated it still. The two had met again at school shortly after the start of the spring semester, and Mark had greeted his friend as just that. Before long, they were going to soccer practice and hanging out again, just like old times.

One Friday afternoon, Mark went to the school office to call his dad at work, briefly asking if it would be all right if he rode the bus home to Alan Parks' house that afternoon. Jack, glad to see Mark spending time with his friends again, had no trouble saying yes. Mark took Bus #39 home that afternoon, instead of #826, the one he usually rode.

For most of the remaining daylight hours, Mark and Alan braved the cold to play some soccer outside, keeping up a brisk enough pace that the chilly air- balmy, in fact, after Mark had spent those two weeks witnessing the vicious winter of Maine- that the slowly retreating winter didn't bother them.

Towards dinnertime, though, Alan asked the logical question; why not just stay for dinner- and, if Mark wanted, go ahead and stay overnight? Mrs. Parks, the sole authority in the house with Mr. Parks- an attorney with Levritt & West- out of town on a case, told Mark he was welcome if he wanted to stay the night. After calling one more time to notify his father and make sure it was all right, Mark accepted Alan's offer and did so.

Mark and Alan had known each other for years; in fact, more or less since kindergarten. They hadn't been friends that whole time, but since the second grade was pretty close. Like so many other people back in Arizona, Alan Parks was sure he knew Mark. Or he had been, before he'd gone out to Maine during Christmas Break. Mark said he'd stayed with his aunt, uncle and two cousins while his dad had gone on a business trip to Japan for two weeks. Alan remembered how Mark had been while his mother was dying; tense, withdrawn, and understandably worried out of his mind.

Mark was different now.

For one thing, he talked more in class at school, chatted readily with people in the halls, and was generally more keen to step up and argue if another kid disagreed with him. It startled Alan sometimes, witnessing examples of this newer, more assertive attitude Mark had somehow gained. Even more mystifying was its apparent source; most notably, there hardly seemed to really be one. Mark had either gone through some significant changes on his own initiative over Christmas Break, doing so in the process of dealing with his grief over losing his mother, or someone else had gained influence over Mark in a way no one ever had before.

Who? Alan had been a friend and teammate of Mark's for years, and none of this made sense to him. Certainly Alan had never held any ability to affect such drastic change in Mark, but neither had he tried. He couldn't think of anyone else at school, and Mark's dad, while still in mourning to some extent, was nonetheless recognizably the same man.

Well… there was that cousin of Mark's.

Henry Evans; Alan Parks had never even heard of him before. Henry was one of Mark's two cousins over on the East Coast, living up near Portland in Maine. Mark had mentioned he had family there once or twice before, but Alan had never met any of them, and Mark didn't seem especially concerned with those faraway relatives one way or the other. But now? To hear Mark tell it, he had a long-lost brother living in Maine rather than a cousin.

It confused Alan to no end. Who was Henry? Why did Mark seem to draw such powerful inspiration from him, like those karate classes he now was so enthusiastic about? It was a sharp contrast to his past attitude towards such things, which had been indifferent at best.

But in spite of the differences between Mark now and when Alan had last seen him, Mark was still in many ways the same person. Losing a parent was a drastic change; Alan had no trouble understanding that. It was possible, even, that between dealing with that and meeting a cousin he really happened to like, Mark had simply made a friend in Henry and wanted to be like him. In a sense, it was only logical.

Mark still regarded Alan as a friend; certainly, Mark didn't seem to think anything had changed between them, and in spite of his wariness at times, Alan felt like he almost had to reciprocate.

The sleepover hadn't gone too bad; not at first, certainly. They'd passed the time doing many of the things that had once allowed them to freely spend an evening and a night away, with hardly a care in the world. Alan had a certain feeling things would be changing; these boyhood traditions of staying up late just to prove you could, playing board games and watching movies- it wouldn't go away once they became teenagers, but things would change. It'd be all about cars and girls and whatever before long; in a way, Alan preferred being 12, when you were counted as one of the older boys but didn't yet have to worry about trying to be one of the men.

Mark didn't seem to feel quite the same way.

It wasn't anything in particular, nothing that Alan could put his finger on. But as the two roamed from one past-time to another, Mark just seemed grow restless, to get bored a little more quickly than he would have in the past.

"What is it?" Alan even asked at one point, while they were sitting on the couch and Mark was channel-flicking after they'd finished watching a couple episodes of the old Phil Silvers show "Sergeant Bilko". It was an old TV show from the fifties or sixties, a comedy-type show that both Mark and Alan liked. Mark had enjoyed it well enough, laughing now and then along with Alan while those handful of episodes were on. Now, though, he was flicking through the channels, visibly bored again. He just didn't seem content. It was like Mark was thinking, "I could be doing X instead."

What, then, was X?

"Oh, I dunno," Mark said with a shrug in response to Alan's question.

"Come on, man," Alan said, not trying to push too hard but hoping for a better answer. "You can talk to me."

"Haven't I been?" Mark asked, putting on a look of mock innocence.

"Sorta," Alan said; now it was his turn to shrug uncertainly. "Come on," he said, trying again. "There's gotta be something you wanna do." It was 9:30, but neither of the boys was quite ready to go to bed just yet. In the spirit of so many other 12-year-old boys, they still had a certain inclination to believe that simply staying up past 8 or 9 in the evening was a great act of daring and rebelliousness.

Mark sat silent on the living room couch for a few moments. Thinking. Finally, he seemed to make his decision, and glanced over at Alan, his cool blue eyes locking with Alan's green ones. "Your dad still smokes, doesn't he?"

Not quite following this, Alan nodded. "Yeah, sometimes." He gave Mark a curious look. "Why?"

"Oh," Mark said, glancing across the living room towards where Alan's mother had gone upstairs an hour ago, "I just kinda felt like a smoke. You know?"

The offhand way Mark said this was kind of surprising, to say the very least. Cigarettes? Where on Earth had _this_ come from?

When Mark noticed his friend sort of just looking back at him, he hopped up from the couch, wandering into the kitchen where the light over the sink was on. Mark's memory was impressive; without even asking for confirmation, he looked through a couple of kitchen drawers and found one of Alan's dad's spare packs of cigarettes. They were tucked away at the far end of the drawer, out of sight unless you knew they were there- but Alan's dad was actually pretty casual about it. He knew Alan wouldn't take any of the cigarettes; his son didn't seem to care much for tobacco anyway. The same- at least in the past- had been true of Mark.

Tonight, though, Alan Parks watched in amazement as Mark Evans easily snatched the pack out of the kitchen drawer, tucking it in his pants pocket and- with another furtive glance back towards the stairs up from the living room- headed downstairs to the basement.

"Dude!" Alan hissed, hurrying down the stairs after him. "Mark! What're you doing?"

"Come on," Mark said.

At first, he couldn't even tell why Mark was going down here. The basic, utilitarian layout of the basement included concrete floors and bare stone-and-wood walls. There was a general storage room with the washer and dryer, the garage- and a bathroom with an indoor-to-outdoor fan.

_Oh_.

"Mark," Alan said uneasily as they stood in the basement hallway, "You can't be serious, man. Are you _crazy_? My dad finds out you took those, he's gonna _freak_!"

Mark just gave him a look, one of a kind he'd never given his friend before. "What're you so _afraid_ of, Alan?"

"What?"

Mark just shrugged a little bit, then gave his friend an affectionate light punch on the shoulder. He smiled as they stood by the stairs, the light from the kitchen reaching the two boys and providing a dim light in the otherwise dark basement.

"Come on, Alan," Mark said, hoping to sway his friend. He opened the pack, taking out a cigarette and placing it between his lips with ease. It was how casually Mark did it that surprised Alan the most; Mark looked like a boy who was fast learning a new lifestyle, not just a kid who was trying it out and perhaps gaining a habit.

Mark looked at Alan again as he opened the bathroom door and reached to flip on the fan's switch. "What's there to be afraid of, man?" Mark asked, that smile still on his face. He motioned for Alan to follow him into the bathroom with his head, still holding out the second cigarette.

Some quiet, small part of Alan wanted to. For just a moment, he felt a strange, somehow terrible temptation to just go in there and smoke the whole goddamn pack. But it was a feeling only, and didn't last. Alan backed away, shaking his head. "No, man," he said. "No thanks. I'll stay out here."

"Not gonna tell on me?" Mark asked, a little wary.

Alan had to shake his head, though; his parents would probably not notice a missing cigarette, and Mark was his friend. "No," Alan said. "I'll wait."

"You sure?" Mark said, taking out the lighter he'd brought with him.

"Yeah," Alan said, still uneasy about yet another new, unexpected change in Mark. He'd hated cigarettes the last time they'd talked.

Mark just shrugged, not bothered in the least. "Suit yourself," he said, flipping open the golden Zippo and turning inside the bathroom, closing the door. A moment later the fan began to hum, steadily venting the air and shipping it outside.

Inside the bathroom, Mark took his first drag in a month, closing his eyes and holding the warm, acrid smoke in his lungs before letting it out, breathing it towards the fan. Alan had been a good friend to Mark for years; why was he being such a killjoy now?

Mark understood Alan's hesitation, that worried look that had come over his face when Mark had so brazenly proposed a secret breaking of the rules. It was the look of a boy well-conditioned to be obedient, a good little boy who followed the rules and did what he was told and let the adults run his life "until you're ready". That was who Mark knew he'd been before going up to Maine. He was different now, and thankful for it. Henry had set him free.

Taking another drag and letting it out after a few moments, Mark remembered how Henry had once made him that same offer; and how he, Mark, had looked just like Alan at the time. He'd been afraid… just like Alan Parks clearly was now. Alan wasn't a coward, but just like Mark had once done, he spent too damn much time being scared. If there was one thing Mark had learned from his cousin, it was that it just wasn't worth it. Life was scary; guys like Alan needed to wise up and get used to it. Have a smoke once in a while and don't worry about it so much.

After maybe five or six minutes, Mark had burned the cigarette almost down to the filter. Wishing he could just sit in here and burn up half the pack, Mark took one last drag and tossed the butt in the toilet, flushing it and waiting another minute or two before turning off the fan. He'd been careful, always sending the smoke right towards the fan and sitting near it. Leave the door open and let the central air of the house take its course, and there'd be no smell left at all by morning.

True to his word, Alan was still out in the basement hallway when Mark returned, fidgeting nervously with his bowl-cut of flaming red hair. "You missed the fun, man," Mark said, trying and not quite succeeding to suppress a smirk. Alan's unease over this was kind of funny when you looked at it his way.

Alan just shrugged, looking rather uncomfortable. "Can you put the pack back where you found it?"

Mark nodded, not wanting to make this too difficult for Alan- and, though he didn't particularly care if Alan got in trouble, Mark could see no way letting that happen would benefit him. He headed up to the kitchen and placed the pack just where he'd found it.

"Happy?" Mark asked, a bit sarcastically, but Alan nodded. It was getting towards 10; having passed the evening by and now with bedtime the next priority, the two boys headed upstairs to Alan's room.

Alan had shared a room with his older brother Calvin for a few years, but the Salamander Incident had largely changed that. Calvin was over in the Midwest now, attending the Kemper Military School. Not a whole lot seemed to have changed- in the past year, Calvin had proved he hadn't learned much by then committing the Noodle Incident, an act that Alan- and many of Calvin's classmates at school- had thought absolutely hilarious. The Parks elders, however, had not been so amused. Calvin's one year tour of duty at KMS had been upgraded to two.

Even had Calvin been at home, he still wouldn't have shared a room with his younger brother; one of the Parks' spare rooms had been given to Michael once he started turning fourteen and fifteen, and the shared room with its bunk beds started getting a little small.

The beds were fine for Mark and Alan, though; growing boys they certainly were, but though closing in on thirteen, the beds that had fit them as children were still good enough for them. Mark headed quietly down the hall to brush his teeth, using a new one Alan gave him for today, then Alan went. When he got back, Mark was settled into the lower bunk, the covers coming up to his bared middle. He had his hands folded behind his head, looking up at the underside of the upper bunk, looking calm and content- quite so, indeed, now he had that nicotine racing through his system. Mark was amazed he hadn't noticed that before; but then again, because of his boyish fears, there had been more than a couple of things Mark was unwilling to try.

Alan stared for a moment, then flushed and made a point looking away. "Dude," Alan said awkwardly, "_Dude_- are you _naked_ or something?"

Mark shrugged, his pale shoulders going up and down slightly. "Yeah. So?"

The other boy rubbed the back of his neck uncertainly, then noticed Mark's clothes- every stitch- folded and neatly stacked at the end of the bed.

"Well-" Alan stammered, trying to find the words, "Well- it's weird!"

Mark laughed a little, the sound almost contemptuous. "Does it really make you that uncomfortable?" he glanced at Alan, noticing the expression on Alan's face seemed to say yes.

"Whatever, man," Mark said, sighing resignedly. "I'll get dressed in the morning. Don't worry about it."

Alan sighed too, giving up and shaking his head. Changing into pajamas for the night, he climbed up to the top bunk. The two boys talked amiably for perhaps half an hour; both had a certain liking for that habit boys have of only speaking of certain subjects late at night, when nobody else was around to hear. They speculated about what it would be like to be teenagers; Mark expressed disappointment that their favourite sport- soccer- was not as popular in America as it was in Europe. "Over there," Mark said, "we'd be rockstars."

Alan laughed at that, feeling a bit more at ease; that was something he and Mark could still agree on, and it was nice to have a reminder that was still possible. Sometimes, lately, Alan wondered about him and Mark in the future. Sometimes, as you grew up, he heard that friends simply got to liking different things, and didn't see as much of each other anymore. Alan liked Mark even with their newfound differences; he hoped they could avoid such a fate.

Eventually, the talk between them ceased as both boys grew tired; they bade each other goodnight and began to go to sleep. In the lower bunk, Mark thought again of Alan, of how his reaction to something new Mark did had twice mirrored his own, when he'd first seen that action displayed by Henry. Alan had been confused, repulsed- much as Mark had been. It annoyed Mark now; that sort of thing was just so childish.

So Mark liked sleeping naked sometimes- they were both boys, and last time he'd checked, neither he nor Alan was homosexual. So who the hell cared? It felt good, and Mark found he liked going shirtless when the weather was good, sleeping naked when possible. Henry, with a sly smirk, had remarked that it helped to remind a boy he had something to show off. Something that- in just a few years- the girls were gonna be begging to see. That was another thing Mark liked about Henry; a visionary, he was often- perhaps always- looking to the future.

Back among the classmates he'd known before he'd gone up to Maine, Mark sometimes felt like he was a steadily growing boy- in maturity and in form- and his so-called 'peers' were a lot of little children. Some were better than others, but overall… Mark wished he had Henry around. Henry was, just as the phrase went, too cool for school.


	4. Chapter 4- Force & Change

**Chapter IV- Force & Change**

* * *

Mark knew he was a different boy now; he walked, talked, and acted in ways he never had in the past. It wasn't anything instant or so obvious that literally everyone could see the new boy Mark had become… but in a way, everyone could. In PE class- a subject many boys, Mark among them, had once been so-so at best in- Mark was engaging himself with gusto, enjoying the chance to run, do pull-ups and pushups, and try out new sports every week. He wasn't the strongest or fastest of the boys in his class- not yet- but Mark's new enthusiasm for physical education surprised everyone.

Mark held his head higher these days, and as much as losing his mother had bothered Mark, he knew it was something he now had behind him. There was a time for mourning your losses, but there was such a thing as too much. Mark had been headed for a lengthy session of mourning; perhaps he'd never have gotten over it, period. Henry, on the other hand, had showed Mark how vital it was to take blows when they came, but to always come right back and keep going, always keep going. You always had to be moving forward.

The change in Mark was gradual, but steady, and Henry was cheerful and encouraging whenever Mark called. When the two had been standoffish and distant- at times even unfriendly- during that first week, Henry had been cold and arrogant. He was warm and generous to those he liked, but had a brutal sarcastic streak, and was very cold to those who angered him. But none of that applied to Mark; having accepted Henry's offer of friendship, Mark was now reaping the benefits. He could always call the house in Maine to speak with his cousin for advice, or just to talk about how things were going at school and at home. Henry was always making time to talk to him, and called Mark regularly himself.

What surprised Mark the most was one day, shortly after his birthday- which Henry had of course called on and sent presents for- when Mark called. Henry had been out in the shed in the backyard, working on some project or another he had out there. Mark, when told this by Aunt Susan, had smiled at the memory- he remembered Henry's "laboratory", all right. Mr. Highway and the crossbow that fired railroad spikes had both been created there; Mark hadn't asked Henry what he'd been working on there lately, but it could be safely assumed it would be of similar- better- impressiveness.

Mark's cousin had come inside around 6:30, an hour after dinner and perhaps a minute or so after Mark had called. He was traipsing through the kitchen in search of a warm snack- a good boy, Henry had made sure to leave his boots and coat in the entrance hallway- when Susan noticed him and told Henry Mark had called, and was still on the phone. Henry had quite literally dropped what he was doing- Mark had heard some bundle of things go crashing to the floor- and raced over to the phone.

"Hey! Hey, Mark!" Henry said, sounding a little breathless and more than a little excited. "What's up? How's my teenage- uh, cousin?" he said, briefly casting a glance at his mother. He wasn't sure if he wanted his mother knowing about his bond with Mark, how the two really just called each other cousins so as to avoid questions from curious adults. Of course, the world- absolutely no one- could ever know how closely bonded the two really were… and, in his own thinking, Henry wasn't sure himself. He understood a lot about Great Aunt Helen's estate home across the suburbs, enough that he'd been willing to take a tremendous risk and lure Mark into the Hall and force him down, drag him back to the Glass Library… and let the house change him.

Henry wasn't quite ready to admit it- not quite yet- but he was beyond thrilled at how well the whole thing had worked.

On the other end of the line, Mark chuckled.

"What?" Henry asked, frowning in confusion. "What's so funny?"

"You," Mark laughed, stifling rising laughter.

Henry was silent for a few moments, trying to figure out if he was being made fun of. Finally, though, Mark heard him start to laugh, too.

"I know you didn't just call to make fun of me, loser," Henry said with mock disdain.

"True," Mark agreed. "I saw roadkill the other day, and that squirrel still looked better than you."

"Eat me." Henry said.

"Only your intestines."

"With ketchup."

The two boys laughed again, pleasantries now having been properly exchanged. They talked amiably for a few minutes, the range of subjects loosening up some as Susan headed elsewhere in the house and no one was around the kitchen to listen. Henry was almost green with envy that Mark had turned thirteen first; he was looking forward to being a teenager in a big way. High school was said to be the best years of somebody's life, and Henry had every ambition of forcing that statement to come true for him.

Once he had wandered upstairs with the wireless set, Mark asked how Henry's "projects" had been going since he'd left. He could almost see Henry's face brighten at the question, and his voice lifted as well, showing his enthusiasm. "Oh, man!" he said. "I'm doing all kinds of stuff! Making a squirrel trap, for one thing. That's gonna be fun!"

Knowing just what use Henry planned on putting that trap to, Mark snickered. "Sounds fun, all right."

"Yeah," Henry said, his voice turning wistful. He lowered his voice a little, glancing around to make sure nobody was listening. "It'd be a lot more fun if you were still here."

Henry hit that nail on the head; Mark felt a deep pang of regret, a hope that he and Henry having the exact same wish at this moment could somehow help make it come true.

"Yeah," Mark said, wishing he could say something else. "I know."

But Henry, as always, had an answer; he made himself cheer up a little, knowing he needed to. For his cousin, even if not for himself. "Well, it's okay," Henry said. "We could never be done, Mark. We're brothers, and brothers look out for each other."

Mark had to clear his throat a few times before speaking; he felt something gripping his chest, restricting his ability to speak. He missed Henry. Missed him so much it hurt.

"Listen, Mark," Henry said gently, "I'm really glad you called."

"Yeah," Mark said finally, "Me, too."

Then, suddenly, Connie bounced into the kitchen, chirping something at Henry and then bouncing off into the house about how _Henry_ was on the phone with a _girl_. "Connie!" Henry exploded, turning his head and only just remembering to avoid shouting into the phone. "Don't you ever-!"

Then Henry remembered he was still on the line with Mark. "Listen," Henry said, "I gotta teach another lesson. Talk to you later, okay?"

"Sure," Mark said, "You just set her straight." He liked Connie well enough, but intruding- and perhaps listening in- on other people's conversations was rude. Connie needed to learn that now so she wouldn't make a bigger mistake later.

Henry chuckled warmly- or coldly, depending on who you were. Connie doubtless would not have appreciated Henry's laughter at that moment in time. "Oh, you know it," Henry chuckled softly. "You know I will."

"Hang loose," Mark said, wondering where he'd even heard that, then hung up. He could almost see Henry tearing out of the kitchen, speeding through the vast white house and hunting down Connie for her transgression. Doubtless he would do something effective but harsh, and doubtless he'd get in some measure of trouble with his parents for it. But, also doubtless was the knowledge that Connie would indeed learn her lesson- and would never trifle with Henry like that again. Not when he was on the phone.

In their conversations, Mark sensed something else about Henry. His cousin was always in a good mood when talking with him, but Henry's tone of voice gave the impression of somebody who was improving to a good mood- and perhaps hadn't been in one before. More than once did Henry mention how he had done this or that, gone here or there, and found it would've been a lot more fun if he hadn't gone there himself. He really missed Mark, and that night on February 5th, admitted it openly. Mark took that as a great compliment- one he could easily reciprocate. But Henry seemed to be particularly short-tempered with people lately, like gaining a friend and then just losing him two weeks later had made his overall tolerance lower. Mark understood that easily enough.

One of the people Mark could barely stand even allowing in the same school as him- let alone the same room- was Sean Walters. Somehow naturally gifted as one of the strongest, fastest-growing boys in his class, Sean was the iconic, mean-spirited bully. He was tall, strong, and had a messy mop of black hair under which beady dark-brown eyes peered suspiciously, searching out weaker kids to establish his superiority over. Mark had given up his lunch money more than once in his early days at junior high; Sean had a way of finding him, it seemed. Once or twice he'd even endured a light beating- and that meant sitting there and being the kicky/punchy bag for a couple of minutes until Sean got bored.

But Sean wasn't bothering Mark much these days. There'd been no direct moment of truth, no confrontation that showed Sean and all the school who Mark really was now. But Sean, seeing Mark the first day he'd come back, had started to move in as the smaller kid was at his locker, talking with that twerp Alan Parks- and Mark, somehow, had easily seen him coming. Mark hadn't done anything in particular, said nothing to Sean- but gave him such a hateful, venomous look that Sean suddenly altered course and just headed off to class. He'd thought about that moment for a week afterwards; never had he seen a look like that from a scrawny kid like Mark Evans. _Never_.

Alan Parks, on the other hand- he was different. Sean beat him up a little after gym class one day- just a little playful slapping around, a few punches to the stomach and one to the nuts as a finishing touch- and the ginger-haired boy did just what the weaker kids always did. He tried to hurry for an exit without admitting fear and running, and didn't make it. He wisely gave up any effort of resistance, as that would've failed miserably and given Sean reason to let the beating really earn the name. And he tried to hold back, but just like all the others ended up crying anyway. Sean got bored and left him there before long, sniveling and curled up on the locker room floor. He'd made extra certain that Mark Evans had indeed left class early that day- the infirmary had called him up for some reason or another; a great stroke of luck as far as Sean was concerned. Last of all, Sean warned the Parks boy not to tell Mark Evans; dark look or no, Sean knew he could still take them both in a fight if he wanted, and it would be much worse for Alan Parks if he squealed, to Mark or the administration. If he did that, Sean advised, Alan Parks would never, _ever_ again want to be alone. Not where Sean Walters could find him.

Sean knew there were some kids who were just tough customers- or thought they were. Some eggs took more effort to crack.

That was what Sean's pocket knife was for. He didn't carry it often, or his brass knuckles- but he could if he needed to.

Mark didn't hear about the incident from Alan directly; another player on the soccer team observed Sean moving a little slower than he should have during practice the next day, and when a ball bounced off his chest- no big deal at all normally- Alan visibly winced in pain. Noting these things, Mark had approached Alan during a break and asked if everything was all right. The vehement, evasive way Alan said yes immediately made Mark suspicious; at the end of practice, he all but dragged Alan into the baseball field's dugout and threatened to beat Alan up himself if he didn't talk.

Alan cringed visibly at Mark's sudden fierceness; for the first time in his life he was really afraid of his friend. "Wh-what's _wrong_ with you?" Alan asked, scared and confused.

Mark's fierce, tense expression softened somewhat, but not a great deal. "Look," he said quietly, "You _need _to tell me. I gotta know what's wrong, because if someone messed with you, I gotta go kick their ass."

Alan just sat down on the dugout bench, clutching his bruised middle and wishing all the weirdness would just stop. That Mark and everybody else- or just Mark, really- would go back to the way they'd been. He didn't get his wish, because Mark just stood there, arms crossed over his sky-blue soccer jersey and the number 12 in white.

"Sean," Alan said finally, staring at the dirt on the ground. A dangerous fire lit in Mark's eyes, and instantly Alan felt afraid- this time not for himself, but for- of all people- the school bully. Well, one of the school bullies. Sean wasn't exactly alone in his role, not at a junior high school.

"Take off your shirt," Mark said, and it wasn't a request- it was a command. Too tired from the beating yesterday and practice today, Alan pulled his #9 jersey over his head and waited. Mark drew in a sharp breath as he looked over his friend's pale, lean chest and belly, now spotted unpleasantly with some well-placed bruises.

"Okay," Mark said finally. "Put your shirt back on. Let's go."

Alan asked- even begged- Mark to say no more about it, to not even tell anybody else on the team. Mark finally agreed, though he had to resist giving Alan a disgusted look as they walked back from the soccer field. What was Alan even doing; demonstrating teenage Stockholm Syndrome? Sean Walters was the biggest jerk in their class; what did Alan care what happened to him?

But Alan was adamant, and Mark assured him everything would be fine. He meant that in a somewhat different way than Alan understood it, though.

For a whole week after that Mark and Sean kept on ignoring each other, and Mark's standing among the hundreds of junior high students went up a small notch. He was no longer a victim, and that meant he could- perhaps- start to be taken seriously. The system was arbitrary and hypocritical about who it favoured, but some of it did have logic to it, however flawed it might have been. Simply enough, someone who looked like prey probably was. Girls- and guys- overall would not grant respect or popularity to someone like that. It was the boys who stood on their own two feet who got respect, and Mark was starting to earn some of that.

In early February, though, right around the 7th, the weather warmed just enough that some of those students who could began walking home instead of taking the bus. Nobody at Duvall Junior High was able to drive yet, but with the teenage years beginning to make their mark, the school bus just wasn't all that cool anymore. So Mark was pleased to learn that Sean did indeed live within walking distance of school, and that his neighborhood was even fairly close to Mark's.

The two happened to leave school at different enough times that neither had really noticed this before, but Mark noticed Sean heading out back and starting the walk home after school one day, just as he and Alan were getting ready to go. That Friday, when it was again sunny and Mark figured Sean would again be walking home, he made sure he and Alan were getting ready to go when Sean was. They headed out back, the one boy and the other two, one not quite aware of the others as he climbed the wood steps going up the tree-covered hill behind the school, planning to pass through these woods, head up a street and down another, and then be at home perhaps ten minutes later. Not far behind him though, and walking quicker than usual, was Mark- and not only was Mark madder than hell… he had a plan.


	5. Chapter 5- The Fight

**Chapter V- The Fight**

* * *

"Hey!" Mark called, once he was twenty or thirty feet away from the bully's back. They were well into the woods now; plenty of distance between themselves and the school. Just right.

Sean turned, blinking in surprise when he saw who it was. "Hey!" Mark said again, his eyes locked on Sean's. "Yeah, idiot! I'm talking to you!"

Sean stared for a moment; the Parks boy beside Mark looked uneasy, almost a mix of fearful over what might happen if Mark lost, and eager to see the result if Mark won. But Mark? He was pissed. His blue eyes flashed angrily beneath his wavy brown hair, and he tossed his backpack down beside a tree like it wasn't there. Once they closed within ten feet, Mark grabbed his crotch suggestively. "You even _got_ one of these, big boy? Or are you the ugly _girl_ of the family?"

"Okay," Sean said quietly, tossing his own bag down too. "Okay, wise guy. You want it, you're gonna get it."

"Only in your fucking dreams," Mark Evans snarled, raising his fists and advancing with his eyes narrowed to slits. Alan Parks just backed away. This was Mark's fight.

Sean began to move forward, but for just a moment he felt a tremor of fear. A feeling that, perhaps, he'd messed with the wrong kid when he'd set his sights on Mark Evans. But the feeling passed, and certainly Sean wasn't about to back down now. He was half a foot taller than Mark, that much at least, and these two lanky soccer sissies didn't stand a chance against him. Not on any day of the week, angry or no.

Sean moved in for the kill. It would be best to make this quick; he was looking forward to making Alan Parks' life a rolling sea of pain. Multiple kicks to the nuts would be the start this time. Just the beginning.

Mark advanced too, and when Sean tried to punch him, the leaner boy blocked the blow with one arm, smirking grimly as he forced Sean's opening attack aside. The bigger of the two boys was surprised, but did not even entertain the notion of backing away. It'd be all over school tomorrow if he let that happen; these two little dorks would no doubt see to that themselves. So Sean attacked again, and the two boys traded blows for a minute or so; Mark fought back with surprising strength and speed, doing much better at holding his own than he would have just a month or two ago. Mark took a glancing blow to the left side of his face, barely noticing; he smacked aside another of Sean's punches and swiftly kicked him in the guts. Sean bent over, the air barfing out of him in a rush.

Mark started laughing.

Sean, on the other hand, began trying to back away, suddenly losing interest in the whole thing. He was doubled up, gagging and coughing. Mark, still laughing, moved around behind him and punched Sean twice in the ribs, then got right behind Sean and kicked him in the ass. The bigger boy fell over, still trying to catch his breath. He rolled to his side, got up and lashed out blindly, hoping more to force some distance between himself and Mark than to beat him. Sean's fist hit Mark on his left shoulder, and Sean was surprised again; the Evans boy might have been lean, but he sure was mean. And strong; those arms of Mark's had more power than Sean had ever expected. He didn't seem like such easy prey anymore.

Mark took the blow to his shoulder easily, then sent out a lightning-fast blow to Sean's face, hoping to break something. He didn't, but the fist that struck Sean's nose with judiciously-calculated force did its job well; Sean backed away again, blood flowing freely from his nose. Mark attacked again, punching Sean in the mouth; the other boy tasted copper. Then Mark kicked him in the guts again, and Sean collapsed.

"Jesus," Alan Parks yelled, finally having seen enough. He ran towards Mark as his friend- still laughing- advanced on Sean Walters, his fists balled and stained with Sean's blood. "Jesus," Alan cried again, grabbing hold of Mark and pulling him back. "Stop it!"

In an instantaneous, reflexive act, Mark drove his right elbow backwards and slammed it into Alan Parks' stomach. Stars and black dots filled Alan's vision, and he stumbled backwards, clutched his middle, coughed hard and puked. He dropped to his knees, vomiting and gasping for air alternately.

Sean Walters was down for the count; he was lying on the ground in the woods now, moaning in what had to be some of the most real pain he'd felt in a while. For just a moment Mark stood over the bully, his former tormentor, sweaty and breathing hard; in that instant Mark knew that for the first time in his life, he was truly tasting victory. He gloried in the moment and felt the power of his new way of life; clearly saw the gift Henry had so generously given him.

The thought occurred to Mark again; _Henry set me free_.

Then Mark became aware of another boy near him; he heard the coughing and spitting as Alan Parks finished rejecting the last of his lunch, grimacing horribly at the taste and still bent over on his knees. Mark stared, surprised; had he done that?

Mark hurried over to Alan, putting an arm around the red-haired boy's shoulders and helping him stand. "Oh, God, man," Mark said, stunned at how hard he'd hit Alan without even realizing it. He'd only been dimly aware of the person grabbing at him from behind; having forgotten about Alan Parks quite completely, Mark had assumed it was one of Sean's friends, ambushing him from behind. He'd just struck back, taking advantage of the fact that his opponent was clearly more hesitant than him.

Alan stood slowly, then shoved Mark away. "Get off of me! Let me _go_!" he shouted, then staggered over to a nearby pine tree, setting a hand against it and gasping still.

"What?" Mark said, surprised. "I'm sorry, all right? I didn't mean to do that! I'm sorry!"

"Just leave me alone!" Alan snapped, then hunched over for a second. "Oh, _God_," he moaned, "I think I'm gonna be _sick_…"

_You already _were_, you weak little runt_, Mark almost said, but bit the comment back at the last moment.

"Look," Mark said, "You shouldn't have grabbed me like that! I thought one of Sean's friends was here!"

"And wouldn't that have been too bad!" Alan shot back sarcastically. "You were getting ready to _kill_ him!"

"And so what if I _had_?" Mark snapped, surprised that Alan even cared. "He's pushed us _both_ around for _years_, man! He beat _you_ up just the other day! You should be happy!"

"I'm not!" Alan shouted, scared and angry now. "I never wanted you to fight him for me, okay? I don't want anybody hurt!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Mark said, sarcastic now when he said that word. "I didn't know you _cared_ about fuckers like him!"

Alan Parks stared at Mark for a moment, shocked beyond words; this was a day he'd never imagined he'd see. The Mark Evans he'd known for years was a nice kid, plain and simple. Just a nice kid. He always played fair, never started fights, and had a great regard for what was right and what was wrong.

The Mark Evans that Alan was looking at now looked like a boy who'd just been trying to kill somebody. He had Sean's blood on his hands from some of the most vicious blows he'd inflicted, having turned his karate green belt knowledge into an offensive weapon. And if Alan could put a guess out there, Mark looked like he was happy about it.

"What's _wrong_ with you, man?" Alan yelled, angry now as well as scared. It was like he didn't even know who Mark was anymore. He had the same name, same face; but at the drop of a hat, he now acted in ways he'd never, ever done in the past. It was like at least half of him was gone, replaced by another person. A much meaner one. "Since you got back," Alan went on, "you've been acting weird! Real freakin' _weird_!" Seeing the insolent, irritated look growing in Mark's eyes, Alan spat it out again. "What's _wrong_ with you?"

"There is _nothing_ wrong with me, _understand_?" Mark yelled, his hands held rigidly at his sides, balled into fists. "Have you got four pounds of provolone where most kids got _brains_? That jerk has picked on both of us for _years_! He's the problem! Ask what's wrong with _him_!"

"It doesn't make this right!" Alan yelled back.

"He picked on us both for _years_!" Mark repeated. "The _difference_ is, _I'm_ acting like a man! I'm _doing_ something about it!" He crossed his arms, staring at Alan with contempt he didn't even bother to hide. "You wanna spend the rest of your life being scared, Alan? Like a little mouse?"

"_Fuck_ you, man!" Alan barked, snatching up his backpack and storming off towards the school; there were other ways to walk home. Ones that didn't require going with Mark. Alan stalked off, shaking his head. "Screw this," he snapped. "I'm gone."

"You'll thank me tomorrow!" Mark shot back, then sighed and let Alan go. He knew he was right. He'd done what he had to do; and Alan would be grateful someday. One of these days he'd wish he could be strong and brave- just like Henry had taught Mark to be.

Mark suddenly remembered Sean Walters, instinctively raising his fists and looking around; but Mark's former tormentor was nowhere to be seen. In the shouting match between Mark and Alan, he'd evidently grabbed his own backpack and made a swift and quiet escape. Mark swore violently, using some choice words Henry had taught him before they'd had to part.

After a few moments, Mark grabbed his own bag and headed quickly onward, taking his usual way home through the woods and through a few neighborhoods that bordered directly on the rearmost edges of school grounds. All that yelling might have been heard by somebody, and sticking around to be seen would not be likely to pay off.

The walk home normally took about ten minutes; Mark, walking at a fairly slow, casual pace, made it more like twenty. He passed through a neighborhood park on his way, following an asphalt path paved around the lake years ago. Memories of the recent fight came back to him, and Mark smiled sweetly as he remembered. Beating the hell out of someone he hated, getting revenge for his friend and for himself- it had made him feel powerful. It had made him feel _strong_.

Clutching one strap of his backpack with a hand as he walked, Mark suddenly laughed quietly, remembering the strangely funny sounds he'd heard in the background while beating up Sean, after Alan had tried to grab Mark and Mark had elbowed him in the stomach. It had sounded- well, like Alan's stomach was squeezing his lunch back up. Apple, sandwich and all! Mark chuckled. For some reason, he didn't feel bad about hurting Alan like that. Alan had tried to interfere with Mark's revenge on a bully; thus, Alan had paid the price. And the sound of that vital organ in the other boy's belly, that sound as it had forced Alan's lunch back up and deposited it on the ground with a series of wet, pulpy smacks? Mark laughed again as he remembered that. The noise had been just too darned funny to forget.

Mark savored, most of all, the feeling he'd had when he'd dropped Sean to the ground, stood over the now-helpless bully with victory in his hands. Had Alan not distracted him, had no one else been around… Mark might have killed Sean Walters, strangled him. Just too see how it felt.

Even coming close… having the _chance_. That alone had felt _great_.

Then suddenly, Mark remembered something else. Something very important. It had begun with Mark reflectively thinking how great it had been to continue the karate lessons Henry had begun to teach him, reminding himself to thank Henry for it- those lessons had sure paid off today.

Then it hit Mark; he remembered. Henry! Mark had kicked some ass today; he'd put the pain on not one, but two boys who'd tried to get in his way and it felt _great_! Grinning at the thought, Mark broke into a run and jogged steadily the rest of the way home. As he ran, he was sure of at least one thing.

_Henry's gonna love to hear about this._


	6. Chapter 6- Olden Days

**Chapter VI- Olden Days**

* * *

It was the same cat. Looking down the sights of the homemade crossbow, through the hood ornament of a 1985 Buick Riviera, Henry was sure. It had the same black-and-white pattern of fur, the same stupid tinkling bell attached to its collar, and the same habit of hanging about that stone wall on the far edge of the Evans property, down by Chamberlain Road. The downhill slope was scattered trees and some large rocks, providing Henry with plenty of cover from which to shoot.

His blue eyes flicked up now and then, scanning what he could see of the road a few yards off, making sure he could duck out of sight fast if it looked like a car might see him. Unlikely, given how scant the chances were of a driver coming around the curve and looking uphill to where Henry was, but you still had to consider that. It was stupid crap like that- forgetting the little things- that could get you caught putting a rusty screw or bolt in the neighbor's cat. It was probably one of Mrs. Hess's cats- she had to have about twelve.

Henry smirked. _One won't be missed_. He considered. _Much_.

The cat was no more than twenty meters away; it was a point-blank shot. And Henry had been working hard to perfect the crossbow's firing mechanism and sights since Mark had visited. It had taken a few months to make the crossbow in the first place- much of that was due to the obvious need to carry out the work in secrecy. Had Henry been able to just ask his dad for manuals on home-made weapons and such, get a ride to the hardware store for the tools, things would have been a lot easier. But that wasn't possible, and wishing was useless. If you wanted something, you had to get out there and take it. Henry understood that very well. It was you or him, take or be taken. And Henry loved to take.

The crossbow's sight had been off before. Nothing complex, really; just that the Buick hood ornament had not been lined up right. Henry had spent a few hours in the shed in January, adjusting the sights and testing each adjustment on aluminum cans behind the shed. The latest tests had gone well, and the indications they gave were positive. Henry smiled coldly now, the grim smirk of a magician about to release a flock of doves from his hat. For that was the kind of magician Henry was- he dealt in no single dove or rabbit, but would produce just as many as he liked, whenever he liked. And right now, Henry could hear himself humming some tune, smiling as he dropped a railroad spike down the crossbow's barrel.

Kitty-cat wasn't gonna feel a thing.

The cat paused on the wall, licking one of its paws; it was blissfully unaware of the danger. Henry cranked the spring back with the handle he'd fixed to the right side of the crossbow.

_Smile for the camera, dumbass_, Henry thought with a cold smile, and squeezed the trigger.

_Ka-chunk_! The crossbow fired, releasing the heavy railroad spike and sending it flying through the air. There was a brief whizzing sound as it flew, then suddenly the cat on the stone wall was swept clean off it.

The bolt slammed into the tree just two feet from the wall, taking the cat with it. It meowed in what must have been terrible pain for just a few moments, then was still, hanging limp where the spike had pinned it to the tree. Small trails of blood began to stain the white portions of its fur, as well as the bark of the tree.

Henry grinned for just a moment, feeling that sense of accomplishment and triumph he'd known and loved for years. It was a special feeling, one Henry had first felt when he'd killed Richard years ago. It had been easy, really. He'd been upstairs, building the Porcelain Tower with a mountain of Lego's, trying hard not to listen to the occasional squeaking of the rubber duck as Richard played with it in the bathtub down the hall. His mother was there, cooing to Richard and just showering him with attention… Henry had to remind himself not to listen too hard that day, but his mind kept going back. His mother's attention, the duck.

_It was mine before it was his_.

Then, like a gift from heaven, the phone had rung downstairs. Susan had gotten up to answer it without much thought. After all, what was there to worry about? Henry was down the hall in his room, and there was just six inches of water in the bathtub. Richard was a toddler by then; he'd be fine.

_It was _mine_ before it was _his.

That bitter, coldly furious thought had spurred Henry into action that day, more than two years ago now. He'd liked that rubber duck, and he'd very much liked being lavished with his parents' affection. Then Richard had shown up and started taking it away. Henry remembered what he did that day fondly- it was the first time he'd really enjoyed much of anything, besides people giving Henry attention and being nice to him. But Henry also remembered that day vaguely, like it had all happened in a dream. He remembered getting up, walking down the hall and pausing just short of the half-open bathroom door.

Listening.

Henry had listened carefully, checking for two things- his mother, talking downstairs with some friend of hers, and Richard, squeaking the duck now and then as he sat calmly in the water, splashing occasionally and waiting for his mother's return.

_Go._

Henry had walked swiftly into the bathroom, slipping in without even touching the door. Richard, perhaps two years old, noticed Henry only vaguely. It was the other boy of the house; the bigger one, the one that didn't seem to like him very much. Richard squeaked the duck and gnashed his teeth absentmindedly for a moment. If the big boy was going to come in here to bother him, Richard resolved to bite him. That would show him. It had worked before.

Richard was so busy thinking of his plan of action, and thinking himself quite clever for coming up with it, that he didn't see Henry standing there with a look of cold hate on his face, his hands clenching and unclenching in the shape of fists.

_Kill._

Ten-year-old Henry had sprung forward on that thought, going to his knees as he neared the bathtub. Without ceremony, he set his hands on Richard's damp, chubby little shoulders and forced him forward. Richard squawked in surprise and then began to flail his little arms in fear; even he had been able to tell something was very wrong when those hands had shoved him under the water.

To his credit, Richard had put up quite a fight; Henry's heart raced with fear, and he had been so worried his mother would hear something and come upstairs. If she had, that would have been the end, there and then. Henry would be living out his days in a padded room of maddening white, drawing KILL RICHARD on the wall with a crayon held by his toes, because his hands would have been bound in one of those lovely jackets "those places" had.

But Henry's mother hadn't come up. Susan had stayed on the phone for the minute or so more Henry needed to keep Richard down, grab the younger boy's arms and stop the splashing… and then leave, taking the duck with him. By that time Richard was still. The six inches of water had been enough.

It had taken a minute, seemed like an hour, and made Henry feel a sense of exultation and power he'd never known before in his life. He had taken back what was his, gotten rid of something that was useless to him… and he had killed. Ever since that day, it had been one of the only things that Henry truly felt he understood and enjoyed. Most people loved learning to paint, playing the violin or something. Henry could do all those things, and do them well. But he never enjoyed anything, before or since, as much as killing something. Taking a life. It made Henry feel like his _own_ life became more powerful, more meaningful and significant, each time.

Briefly, Henry exulted in the cold February air, grinning even as the cold stung his face and bit his bare hands. There was some pain from that, yes, but Henry liked it. Pain kind of felt good, somehow. Henry didn't question such things too much; he was a boy who trusted his instincts, his animal instincts, and knew that to contradict them was folly. Henry's sense of triumph, his sense of elation at having both perfected the crossbow and having achieved a kill with it, suddenly fell short, though. Normally, such a victory would leave Henry smiling for the rest of the day. It put him in a good mood every time, and made him feel like he'd really accomplished something. Today, though, things were different. Henry's smile slipped suddenly, fading as he realised.

_This would have been a lot more fun if Mark was here._

It was surprising to think of, but it was also true. Somehow, Henry was just sure of it. Being alone had been fine before; after all, Henry had been alone all his life. For all his charm, all his skill at saying the right things and approaching adults just the right way, Henry had pretty much fallen flat with the other kids. He had few friends, and none he valued. Most kids didn't like Henry. They thought he was _strange_. Something about Henry just seemed to repulse them, no matter what he did. Admittedly, Henry hadn't always tried all that hard. He could have spent more time with the others on the playground, could have tried harder to be like the rest of them, play all their childish little games. Henry did, sometimes. But most of the time he didn't. The truth was he just didn't give a shit.

But Mark? From the minute he'd shown up in Maine, he'd changed things. Right away Henry had liked him; even before Mark had shown up Henry had sensed things were about to change for the better.

He'd heard from his parents that his cousin would be coming shortly after the funeral was over. Henry was fascinated by death but repulsed by funerals- he'd stayed back in Rockbridge with Connie, under the care of a family friend to avoid having to go. But when his parents returned and told Henry and Connie that their cousin Mark would be coming to stay in just a few days, Henry had practically sprinted upstairs to his room. Over the next day, he found the needed materials around the house and set to work. By the time Mark arrived, Henry had what he wanted- two plaster masks, each with a small elastic strap around the back. "Here," Henry had said upon meeting his cousin for the first time. "I made two of 'em. So we could be brothers."

For quite some time- almost all of that first week, in fact- Mark had probably doubted Henry's words, questioned the sincerity in them. But whether or not he'd understood it then, Mark probably could see it now: Henry had meant what he'd said. He'd really sensed they could be best friends, blood brothers. And he'd wanted to be Mark's friend from the start.

It had taken time, yes, and Mark had very nearly failed the series of tests Henry put him to. The whole thing was a little tiresome; Henry almost wished he could have just dropped the charade and asked Mark if he wanted to go kill something for fun. But the old Mark, while he'd had the right stuff- and a much hotter temper than Henry, the blonde sensed- had been too… nice. Too _moral_. And that was where the house had stepped in. Fleetwood Hall hadn't done all that much. It hadn't introduced anything that wasn't already there. Much as Henry had figured, Mark- like so many people- had it in him to be as cold a killer as Henry. All the house did- Henry was somewhat guessing here- was just rub out the stuff that made him such a pious sissy. Basically, that was it.

Henry thought back to the last time he'd taken a shot at the cat that now lay dead by that tree. Mark hadn't even been aware Henry's miss really was a mistake. Then there was the time Henry had killed that jerk of a dog that lived in the area. Henry had never once feared that big, fierce dog. He'd never been scared by it like Mark was, and in fact the one time Henry looked that dog straight in the eyes, the dog had stopped barking, put its tail between its legs and walked away. Henry had forced the dog to blink- and then he'd killed it. Oh, how Mark had carried on then! _Will we get caught, won't we tell somebody_? It had been all Henry could do to stop from just kneeing Mark in the balls and leaving him out there in the cold, _with_ that fuckin' dog they'd killed. But Henry had resolved to be kind to Mark- to pity him, and try his hardest to build Mark up from the wuss he was then.

So he had. Now? Henry shook his head bitterly. Mark had opened up a door in Henry's life that had seemed destined to forever remain closed. He'd given Henry a clear vision of hope- hope that he might one day soon have more than just a friend, but a brother. And Henry, once given that vision, could never let it go again. He'd cursed the second week for going too fast, exactly the same way he'd cursed the first week for going too slow. Mark had come into Henry's life and shown Henry what he'd been missing- how much more he could do, if he had one more buddy to do everything with. Just imagine!

That time at junior high, when Henry had caught that sissy Bradshaw in the locker room after practice and pulled his pants down, grinning as he pulled a pocket knife and threatened to cut the trembling, silently crying boy's privates off… Mark could have been there, laughing in appreciation of the show his brother was putting on. And he'd have enjoyed reaping the benefits of that event's aftermath- George Bradshaw had paid Henry his lunch money on demand, any and every day of the week, for the rest of last year. Unfortunately, he'd also suffered a bit of a breakdown- just a bit, and Henry had _nothing_ to do with that- had to drop out of soccer and ultimately left for another school. But the point was that Mark would have been there, enjoying Henry's handiwork instead of being repulsed by it like everyone else. Once in a while it bugged Henry, though he never let it show. Why did the other kids not like him? He was just doing what he knew he found fun, what he knew felt good and he liked doing. It was what any other kid was expected to do.

And now? Henry had a feeling that had Mark been here today, there would have been no more "Why'd you do that?" or "You're sick" or any of the rest of that nonsense. No, the Mark that Henry knew _now_ would have cheered. He'd have high-fived his blonde cousin over the kill- maybe even insisted on taking the shot himself, just to find out how it felt.

It was ironic. Henry had found somebody who made his life more interesting and fun than ever- and when that person left after just two short weeks, it had made everything Henry had been doing before seem so much the duller. It was frustrating, the annoyance only made worse by knowing what the cause of it was. Nothing seemed all that fun anymore, not even this; all Henry could seem to think about was how much more fun things would have been, had Mark only been here.

Suddenly Henry sprang up from his position on the hill. This latest, sobering thought, dampening his normal sense of victory and accomplishment, almost made Henry forget the cat was still pinned to the tree, and while it was on the side facing away from the road, this would be something Henry would not want to just leave lying around. People tended to think it odd if they found dead cats stuck to trees, especially with railroad spikes in them. And if somebody noticed the dead cat was pinned to a tree that just _happened_ to be on the Evans property… why, that would be odder still. And if in asking those questions adults always did at such moments, someone thought to question Henry and perhaps search the shed…

The white room. _That's_ where that chain of events would end.

It wasn't something Henry wanted to see happen. The very thought made a tremor of fear run through Henry; he rarely even let his mind wander towards the chance of him getting caught, ending up as he surely would in "one of those places". It was something Henry was afraid of- one of the only things that truly made Henry feel fear. He'd much rather die than go there- he'd rather be dead! But for now everything was still okay. No one had seen him. All Henry needed to do was get that dead creature off the tree. Get rid of the evidence.

But thinking about the white room was more than enough to give Henry a sense of urgency. He hurried downhill, hopping over the stone wall and gripping the cat, centering his grip around where the railroad spike was. It was a big piece of metal, and had sunk into both the cat and the tree nicely. Henry was neither fearful of this thing he had killed, nor was he squeamish; in fact, Henry wanted to squeal with delight as he worked the railroad spike free of the big oak, and the railroad spike free of the cat.

_Oog_, Henry wanted to yell for no particular reason. _Oog! Oog, blood_!

A car was coming! Henry could hear it. He grabbed the cat and the spike, the cold doubly stinging his hands now that blood coated parts of them. He darted uphill, making it behind a nice round boulder and back to the crossbow as the car rounded the corner, passing by on the road.

Henry sighed a little, knowing he'd escaped. But there was work that still had to be done. Henry traipsed back uphill, making his way through the woods with the crossbow in one hand, the cat and the railroad spike in the other. Finding a burlap sack in the shed and putting the 'evidence' plus some well-placed rocks inside, Henry wandered up to the cliff edge, perhaps a five or ten minute walk from the house. Walking out on the jutting, triangular ledge that his mother sometimes stood on while thinking about things- like Richard- Henry paused for a moment, looking down. Then he threw the sack over the edge without ceremony, watching as it vanished beneath the waves below, the many jagged rocks and white breakers soon hiding it from sight.

For perhaps a moment, Henry stood there on the cliff, not entirely sure of what to do. Then he walked right to the edge, the very narrowest point where both his feet could still stand. Henry spread his arms wide, tilted his head back and felt the sun warming his cold face. The wind whipped around him, freezing his hands and threatening to throw him off the cliff with one big gust. One wrong move, one good push from the wind, and over Henry would go- down there, to the waves whose deathly, remorseless cold matched what Henry guessed someone who knew the truth would say lived there, deep in his heart. But Henry doubted that sometimes. Especially these days. He was bored out of his mind much of the time, and angry at the wily, cheating cleverness of fate for bringing him a brother- a real brother- and taking him away again.

But sometimes, Henry actually felt good. Like if he did go over the cliff edge now, he could go without a care. Because he'd had that two weeks; fourteen days where he hadn't been quite so fucking lonely. Henry hadn't had any idea just how lonely he really was- and that it could even bother him- until Mark showed up. Mark had given him something Henry didn't even know he was missing.

Henry knew moments like this didn't change much. He knew that if one of those dorks at school showed up now, he'd throttle the kid without a second thought. If Connie showed up, he'd chase her back to the house vowing payback if he caught her. But nobody showed up- so Henry kept his head tilted back, his arms spread wide, and after a few moments closed his eyes. Thoughts- memories- ran through Henry's head, and he could almost hear Mark beside him, standing there beside Henry, right at the edge of the cliff.

He could almost hear the voices of the two cousins. Not brothers yet, but soon. And to Henry, at that moment, they were already there.

"_Close your eyes," Henry said._

"_Why?" Mark asked._

"_Because it's a great feeling."_


	7. Chapter 7- Something About Henry

**Chapter VII- Something About Henry**

* * *

It was almost dinnertime when Henry finally got back. He had no idea how long he'd stood out there on the edge of the cliff. Maybe an hour, maybe ten minutes. For a time, Henry thought of how boring things were now, how short his temper seemed to be. It was getting difficult to explain some of the 'incidents' he was involved in at school, or the fight or two he was in almost every month now. Henry's temper- and his record- were starting to slip. Lying wasn't going to be enough soon if he wasn't careful.

But. He. Was. BORED.

For a time Henry even leaned forward slightly, thinking of something he'd said to Mark some time ago. Or something like it.

_If I let myself go… do I think I could fly_?

_Maybe, maybe not_, Henry's mind answered him, _But it _would_ be a great feeling_.

Henry had suddenly leaned forward, started to feel the weight of gravity pulling him towards those deadly, jagged rocks waiting hundreds of feet below…

Then he was falling backwards, his feet backing up and stumbling backwards. His mind might have been going for the cliff edge, but his feet snapped to and said "Not at all, sir!" Henry crashed to the ground, landing hard. His head struck the hard, barren ground and Henry saw stars. He jumped up, ran a few feet from the cliff, stumbling every few feet until he tripped and fell again. Henry had drawn himself up, hugging his knees and trembling. Now and then, he'd cast a glance at the cliff edge and shivered.

_I almost did it. God help me, I almost did it_.

Then Henry got up and began trudging back to the house. A bitter, cold thought occurred to him. Yet another indication of how restless he felt these days- how nothing seemed to matter, and he gave even less of a damn about his life than usual.

_Who cares_?

Only Mark, and Mark wasn't here. He'd gone back to his old life, his old dad- and that meant being cousins again. Seeing each other once or twice a year, if they were lucky- and if not, perhaps not at all.

When Henry got back to the house, he made sure to make his way straight for a bathroom. After taking a few minutes to carefully wash off the dried blood on his hands, Henry gingerly touched the back of his head and found his blonde hair was matted and stuck in a spot there; it was sore to the touch. Henry was trying to figure out just what this meant when his mother came by with a basketful of laundry to carry downstairs. She gasped a little, her eyes widening in shock and concern.

"Henry!" she exclaimed, "What _happened_?"

It didn't take long for Henry to put two and two together. He'd taken a good blow to the back of his head, all right. Shrugging in apology, Henry said, "I was outside for a while. I slipped on some ice- fell down, hit my head."

Henry spent ten minutes in the kitchen for that one, holding a bag of that jelly-ice stuff wrapped in a damp towel to the back of his head, listening as his mother lectured him on how important safety was in the winter. And what had he been thinking, going outside with no gloves or hat? Was he _trying_ to get sick out there?

_The pain feels good, Mom_, Henry wanted to say, and even started to say it. But he knew he'd better not, even though it was what he meant to say. Henry was indifferent to things that harmed him almost all the time. He could exercise any kid's normal sense of self-preservation, and truth be told minded his steps well almost all the time.

But sometimes, if danger, pain or even death stared him straight in the face, Henry just wanted to shrug and say, _So what_? But he knew this was not the time. Listening to Mom lecture him on how he could've really hurt himself today, and how he'd better be more careful in the future, Henry bit back that reply he wanted to give. He'd learned very early not to speak such things aloud. It was what Henry understood to be normal, sure. But everybody else? Saying things like that would make them think Henry was weird; that he was sick, _unnatural_! He got enough of that from some of those dorks at school. _Creepy Henry_, they called him, and sometimes they laughed. Then the whispers had gotten around about Henry threatening to cut off George Bradshaw's special parts. After that nobody was laughing.

If Henry wanted to make the most of high school, he knew that "Creepy Henry" would have to go away. He couldn't just go on threatening kids for fun and letting the fear the rumors inspired- rumors, because he never got caught- keep everyone in line. He'd have to start playing their game, pleasing the kids as well as the adults. How else was he supposed to be the cool kid, the one all the guys wanted to hang with and all the girls wanted to be with? How, indeed? But Henry couldn't make sense of anything right now. Nothing seemed to fall in place like it used to. He knew all the old games, and could play them better than anybody. He was getting better at his old tricks and finding new ones. But he couldn't take his mind off how much better things would be, if only Mark were here.

So finally, when Susan let Henry go after receiving his shy, bashful apology with dignity and grace, Henry wandered into the living room, sprawling out in the new, dark brown overstuffed leather couch Wallace had bought. God, he wanted a cigarette. But Howie Snyder, the bagboy at the Federal Market who sold him cigarettes while he was on break, was out of town right now. Henry couldn't remember why, mostly because he didn't care. He wanted to swear, too, but Susan would probably hear him. Henry had been fighting the urge to come home and test out new swear words on Connie every day since last year, when he'd gone into the sixth grade. Now, in the seventh, Henry knew plenty of dirty words. He'd cleaned up his act a little, enough that he had *some* friends at school now. He was a tiny bit cool these days- but only a tiny bit.

Henry flicked on a lamp on an end table beside the couch, returning to stretching himself across the couch- not even caring that one of his feet was up on the couch itself, and in the Evans household that was not allowed. Who in hell cares? Henry thought smugly. _Not me, no sir. I'll worry about it when Dad gets home. After he buys the _rest_ of Chrysler_.

As Henry turned on the colour TV and began flicking through the channels, he paused at one. A car commercial was on- it was for the '94 Eagle Premier, that "unsellable" import from somewhere in Europe that Chrysler had rebadged as one of its own. Chrysler was trying a little harder these days, no doubt partly because of Wallace's many helpful suggestions as a rising stockholder in the company.

Eagle was the American Import now, the exotic brand that came right from the good old USA. People were starting to make some sense of that now; Henry just grinned when he thought of all the dollars the new value of Chrysler stock would soon bring his way. Well, Mom and Dad's. But that meant Henry, too. And Connie. Where was she? Henry wanted to give her another rugburn like he'd done after Connie had interrupted his phone call the other day. Oh, how she'd cried. Henry had taken the merciless tongue-lashing that earned him from his father easily. It was worth it.

Henry went on with his channel surfing, finally locating what he wanted; the History Channel. It was a documentary about that German war machine, the Tiger tank. Henry's eyes almost seemed to glow with some unholy light as he listened to the announcer talk about the tank's creation, how it had been crafted by the visionary, over-the-top and fear-no-enemy mind of Adolf Hitler. He'd wanted a tank bigger, better, best of any and all in the world. He had commanded, and Germany had followed. The announcer said all of this very matter-of-fact, but Henry saw right through it. Watching black-and-white footage of a Sherman tank's turret popping off like a cork as a Tiger shot it point blank with an 88mm shell, Henry knew even the narrator was awed.

_I could blow up the whole fucking world in that tank_, Henry thought with a distant smile.

"Henry, Henry!" Connie sang, bouncing into the room like she always seemed to do when she had something to say- especially something that was backed by one or both of her parents. That, she and he knew, made it a lot harder for Henry to override or ignore her.

"What?" Henry snapped, trying to act like she was just some tacky little lamp that had learned to talk.

Noticing right away that Henry was trying to ignore her, Henry bounded in front of the TV. "Mom says I can watch 'Leave it to Beulah' before dinner tonight!"

Henry's eyes briefly flicked to the clock. It was close to dinner; about 5:00pm. They'd be having dinner at 6. Usually that show was scheduled earlier in the day, but sometimes it ran at night, or did an extra episode around or after dinnertime. It was almost like the programmers were _trying_ to give the annoying little sister an excuse to stay up.

"Really?" Henry said, making a mock face of delight. "That's neat!"

"It _is_!" Connie said, putting her tongue out. "And Mom says I can watch it today, so _you_ can't stop me!"

Henry finally sighed, vowing to get the cassette tape for this documentary on the Tiger when it came out. That was just too awesome not to watch all the way through.

"May I have the remote?" Connie asked with exaggerated courtesy.

Flicking off the TV, Henry dropped it to the rug.

Connie scowled and moved to pick it up, then looked at Henry reprovingly. "Mom says you can't have your feet on the couch."

"Really?" Henry asked, his voice light and mocking again. "Do you _think so_?"

"Yes," Connie said, then turned around and plopped down on the rug, turning the TV back on and searching for the channel she wanted. She found it, and after ten minutes or so of some other program Henry could have cared less about- an avid Anglo-and-Francophile, Henry hardly ever watched any kids' TV shows from his own country. It was all condescending trash anyway, whereas Europe seemed to take its children just a little more seriously.

The show- "Leave it to Beulah" started, a series from the fifties still being shown, much as "Bewitched" and "The Twilight Zone", along with "Leave it to Haskell", the latter two being Henry's favourites. But none of _them_ were on right now, and Henry started clenching his jaw as Connie began singing quite badly, going along as the theme tune of the show started.

_Christ_, Henry thought with venom, _Am_ _I really supposed to put up with this_?

After perhaps half a minute, Henry decided he couldn't take it anymore. "Connie," he said, his voice rising in warning, "That's enough."

Connie went right on singing off-key, like she hadn't heard.

Henry's eyes narrowed dangerously as he stared at the back of his sister's head, and in an instant he was on his feet, lashing out with an expertly-placed kick that shoved Connie a foot away and knocked her over.

"Ow!" Connie cried out, "Hey!"

"You don't _ever_ ignore me when I'm talking!" Henry barked at her. "Not now, not ever! _Never_! When I talk, you listen!"

Briefly, Henry remembered the last time he and Mark had talked, a couple days ago. Their last words to each other had mostly been about Connie. Mark had said, "You just set her straight", and Henry had chuckled warmly. "You know I will." Well, he was certainly doing that now.

"I'm telling!" Connie wailed, jumping up and running from the living room. "_Mom_!"

_Oh, boy_, Henry thought, watching her go and then reluctantly following. In the kitchen, Susan had halted her work on preparing dinner and was already listening to her daughter's latest tale about big, mean Henry. Knowing he would soon be a wanted boy if he didn't show up on his own, Henry made his way towards the kitchen. This was gonna take a while.

As a matter of fact, it took more than twenty minutes. For ten of that, Henry was sternly told to go to the kitchen table and just sit. Nothing more than that; Connie was calmed and sent back to the living room, and Henry sat there in silence. Finally, Susan sat down at the dining room table with two mugs; each held a fresh serving of hot chocolate. Carefully setting one down near Henry, Susan sat down with hers. She regarded her son seriously.

"Henry," she began carefully, "You've been in a lousy mood lately. Dad and I think you're kind of grumpy, and you've been getting in a little trouble at school. And Connie?" Susan looked at Henry with real curiosity. "She watches that show all the time! You must have listened to her sing like that a dozen times before."

Henry just gripped the warm mug with one hand, staring at the table and not saying anything. He was awfully close to telling the truth. And while that might not always be a bad thing for him to do- if only for virtue of its novelty- Henry wasn't sure what would happen if he just opened his mouth and let the truth come spilling out. The truth about _what_? That was the problem with it. When Henry lied, he could craft it his own way, string everything together and set events up the way he wanted them known. Lies had to make sense. All the truth had to do was happen.

"Henry," Susan said, gently setting a hand on her son's, meeting his cool blue eyes with her hazel brown.

"Yes, Mom?" Henry asked, keeping his voice even.

"What's wrong?"

Finally, Henry sighed. "I think I miss Mark."

Susan thought about that one for a moment. In a way, it actually explained a lot. Henry's behavior had been altered even before Mark's presence, during that two weeks mostly for the better. Afterwards, he'd grown short in temper and sullen in mood. Thinking about it, Susan realised that perhaps this was the result of Henry meeting his first real friend. It had taken years, and he'd never liked anybody as much as Mark before. During her meetings with Henry's teachers over the years, Susan had seen so many ways of trying to gently hide from a parent that their child, for whatever reason, was odd- and not well-liked. That was the view of his classmates, anyway, while Henry's teachers liked him just fine. Maybe Henry had just not been sure how to make friends.

"I guess that makes sense," she said after a few moments of silence. "You two really seemed to click after that first week."

"Yeah," Henry said with a small smile. He took a sip of the hot chocolate.

"So you miss him?"

Henry nodded.

"Well," Susan said, "I understand that, Henry. That makes a lot of sense. But you can't go taking it out on Connie. She likes Mark, too, but she isn't being mean to anybody because he's back in Arizona."

Henry just nodded again, and said, "Yeah, I know. Just wish he could be around more."

"Uncle Jack says they might visit in Easter," Susan said as she drank some of her own hot chocolate. "Maybe you'll see him then."

Her blonde-haired son's eyes lit up at that, and he looked across the table at her, the hope rather plain on his face. "Think so, Mom?" he asked, and Susan nodded. "Don't see why not."

Henry nodded a little, and visibly relaxed a little more. "I'm sorry about being mean to everybody, Mom," he said in apology. "I-I just miss Mark. I'm not sure what to do sometimes."

"Next time he calls," Susan suggested, "Let him know how you're doing. I'm sure he wouldn't want you getting in trouble here because of how you miss having him around."

Henry nodded after a moment, considering that. "You're right, Mom," he said simply.

Susan smiled a little. "Of course I am. Now, I want you to go up to your room. Stay up there until dinner; Dad will be home by then. Make sure you apologize to Connie when you come downstairs before dinner."

"Yes, Mom," Henry said obediently, and after finishing his hot chocolate headed upstairs as he was told.

_Those two really did click_, Susan thought again, and once more it occurred to her: _Henry's never had a friend like that before_. She'd never seen her son act quite like he had before or after Mark's visit; it was like Henry's cousin coming to visit had stirred a lot of things up in Henry's life, and now that he'd left again Henry was unsure of what to do now that Mark was absent.

But Henry apologized very nicely to Connie, enough so that even his sister seemed a little impressed. He explained that he'd just been kind of grumpy lately, starting off a little uncertainly. Connie had greeted that first effort with a contemptuous huff, but Henry overlooked that- though with some visible effort- and went on to say he really liked having Mark around in December, and missed him now. He said he hadn't been thinking clearly today, and asked that Connie forgive him. She finally gave him a neutral look, warily remembering how upset he'd made her an hour earlier. "You should be nice," Connie said finally. "Like Mark."

It was tough to suppress the smirk Henry felt coming when he heard that. One day soon, Connie might be in for a rude awakening. Mark wasn't quite such a momma's boy anymore.

Dinner went fairly well- Connie and Henry treated each other with civility at least, and Wallace, who would find out about the incident between Henry and Connie later when Susan told him in their bedroom, seemed to sense nothing amiss. He talked with interest of his stockholding work, of how the market had been doing very well lately. Peugeot was talking about returning to the United States, possibly partnering up with Renault, Citroen and SEAT to do it. The French Big Three, and the chief carmaker of Spain teaming up to sell cars to the Americans. Hey, why not? Stranger things had happened.

A call came for Henry after dinner, around 7:30pm. It had to be two hours before that in Arizona, perhaps just after dinnertime for Mark. Naturally, he wanted to talk to Henry- and while she usually liked to talk to Mark some too, Susan let this one go. It seemed like Mark was eager to talk, but only to Henry. That was fine, Susan figured as she called Henry downstairs and gave him the phone. The boys had a right to their own conversations sometimes. Her son promptly found one of the wireless sets and wandered into the living room, sitting calmly across the couch from his sister, who had fallen asleep watching "Gilligan's Island".

Susan tried not to pay too much attention to Henry as he sat in the living room, but she cast a glance in there now and then as she passed by, carrying out various errands around the house. Mostly Susan just wanted to make sure that if Connie were to wake up the two wouldn't start fighting. But Henry didn't seem to be paying attention to her at all. Henry had his mind focused on Mark. This time around, though, the lively conversation that was taking place was mostly one-way. On this occasion, Mark had called because he just needed Henry to listen.

And listen Henry did; it impressed Susan more than a little as she noticed what a good listener her son could be, if he only wanted to. He would say "Yeah," or "Really?" now and then, the latter with noticeable interest. Finally, he spoke with such calm, even smug satisfaction Susan could all but see the smile on Henry's face. "Good," came his voice from the living room. "Very good."

Henry wandered into the kitchen after a twenty-five minute call, visibly cheered and in a much better mood. "Mark had a great day today," was all he would say, but got evasive when Susan tried to ask why. Returning to putting away some of the loaves of fresh imported French bread Wallace had brought home, Susan finally had to smile. Those boys and their secrets. Who knew what it was? Mark _was_ thirteen now, working his way into the second semester of seventh grade. Maybe he'd met a girl.

Upstairs that night, Henry lay in his bed and looked up at the ceiling, listening to the wind howl and the snow softly patter against the window outside. He could feel the cold radiating in from the nearby window; even in February, the nights were little different from December. This was Maine, after all- those weaklings in Georgia might expect the cold to go away by March or April, but in Maine the cold owned the winter the way South Carolina bowed to its summers- completely. The heat of Dixie and the cold of New England came and went when it liked.

Henry was naked under his warm, soft covers, and now and then he shifted a little, delighting in the way the blankets and sheets felt to his bare skin. He was in great shape for twelve- he was one of the fastest, strongest boys in his class. Even the budding group of athletic, popular boys- and girls- couldn't ignore Henry's athletic talent, fit body and good looks. He might have been a bit on the weird side, but Henry had the right stuff to be popular. Most anybody could see that.

But this wasn't about Henry. Not about him- not today. What kept Henry cheerful tonight- and would do so for the next day at least- was the news Mark had told him over the phone. Mark had been so excited, so thrilled at his success, he'd hardly stopped to let Henry get a word in. Normally, Henry hated that- it meant someone besides him was in control of the conversation, and for obvious reasons that just wouldn't do. But Mark, like with so many other things, was the exception here. Henry didn't mind listening if that was what Mark needed. Anything for a brother, right?

And his brother had done particularly well back at his home in Arizona, on this particularly fine February day. He'd done himself- and his blonde cousin- proud. Sean Walters, who Henry recalled was an enemy of some kind to Mark, had been put solidly in his place today. Mark had beaten him in a fight- shut him down cold, one-on-one. Bloodied him up good, and socked a friend of his- Mark's- who'd tried to interfere. Elbowed him in the stomach so hard the other boy had puked. Two boys had displeased Mark, and both had paid the price. And Mark wasn't sorry at all. Well, nearly.

He seemed to have some regret over elbowing his friend Alan Parks- enough that he called it an accident, anyway. And Henry thought it very strange that Mark said he'd picked this fight with the bully Sean Walters over a beating Sean had given Mark's friend Alan a week before. Henry wanted to ask why Mark even gave a shit, but decided not to- out of respect for Mark.

Even so, he was rather curious about that. Mark had clearly enjoyed the day's events, was elated at the hurt he'd put on those two boys in some man-to-man combat. And he now recognized that both the bully and his friend were weak. Neither had what it took to see a fight- a _real_ fight, and not some schoolyard pushy-pushy bullshit- through to the finish. Mark did now, and suddenly he was _too much_ for these dorks. And as for curious little things like Mark still giving a shit about some friend of his? Leftovers, afterthoughts. Mark had come a long way since December 1993, but he still had progress left to go. What mattered to Henry, though, as that it seemed quite certain Mark would make it the rest of the way.

Henry fell asleep with the covers tucked nicely around his neck, his blonde hair smoothed out neatly above his head as always. Conditioned and shampooed regularly, Henry's hair was getting to be rather high-maintenance, one of his silent indications that he really was starting to care- in some ways- about the opinions of others. Susan stopped by Henry's room at the end of the hall as she was coming upstairs for bed around 9; she was surprised, right away, by how calm and peaceful Henry looked. His face was calm, his eyes closed and his breathing deep and regular. Once he smiled, as if recalling something that made him very happy.

He must have been tired, too- Henry normally was a bit of a light sleeper, somehow almost always able to tell if someone was watching him as he slept. But tonight, he had tucked himself in and conked out. Seeing that look on his face- the iconic look of a 12-year-old boy, worn out after a long day- Susan remembered last December. After that fight they'd had in the hospital, Mark and Henry had ended up not only riding home side-by-side in the van, but had within five minutes fallen asleep on each other's shoulders. They'd looked so calm, so unconcerned. From the moment she'd seen them in the rearview mirror to the moment she'd had to wake them at home, Susan had cursed herself for not bringing the camera. It was understandable as to why; with what had happened to Connie that day, her near-miss brush with death on the lake, it made a _lot_ of sense that Susan did not have her camera.

But had she known she'd see Henry and Mark like that, so clearly trusting in each other they were asleep with their heads on each other's shoulders, Susan would have had her camera. The best moments in life seemed to deliberately wait until cameras were out of film, in the shop, forgotten at home or in the car. Henry and Mark had just looked so sweet, so adorable- being boys, they would have squirmed under the seats had they heard a camera wind its shutter open. But Susan hadn't had her camera, so the issue hadn't come up. It really was too bad. That would have been a picture worth keeping, all right.

Back in his room, Henry shifted in his sleep now and then, his thoughts a pleasant haze and his feelings warm and peaceful. He was getting some of the best sleep he'd had in days, and he knew it was due to Mark. His cousin- no, brother- had won a great victory today. He'd stood up to a bully and told him that he was no longer going to be a victim. He would never, ever again be caught defenseless. It had made Henry smile with pride then, and he smiled again in his sleep now.

_Great work, Mark_, Henry thought at one point in a dream, where he saw himself at a soccer game in Arizona, listening proudly as Mark was cheered on to a crushing victory over the other team. _Great work. Miss you, man_.


	8. Chapter 8- Playing Games

**Chapter VIII- Playing Games**

* * *

Mark returned to school the next day in a remarkably good mood. He'd won his first fistfight- won it against a bully, hands-down. And he'd taken care of Alan Parks, when the lanky ginger had tried to get in the way. It was unfortunate- sort of- but Mark had done what he had to do. And as he arrived at school that Thursday, Mark found himself looking for Alan with a calm, expectant feeling as he made his way through the milling crowd of kids on the bus ramp. Alan rode a different bus to and from school, but they shared a table at lunch. Mark would surely see him then.

He even had it all made out in his mind, just how things would go. Alan, having gone home and had some time to calm down and think about things, would approach Mark sometime today. Maybe in one of the classes they shared, perhaps at lunch. But before 3:45pm today, Alan Parks would thank Mark for the help he'd been yesterday. Mark, of course, didn't mean to hold this over Alan- much- or to expect any sort of compensation for his generosity- yet. For today, all he wanted was to hear those two simple words: "Thank you", and Mark intended to behave with magnanimity as he heard them. He would nod, smile a little and shrug. It was no big deal; after all, what were friends for?

Mark also watched for Sean throughout the morning, and was pleasantly surprised to find he didn't show up. What he was able to gather through questioning certain other students was that Sean had apparently stayed home today; the story was he was sick or something. The attitude he sensed, however, was that many disbelieved this- jerks like Sean seemed blessed with remarkable good health, in a way not unlike a cockroach. He was just too resilient to be kept home for such a reason. Skipping was another matter, but his two best friends, Eric and Chad, were about as puzzled as anyone else- that possibility looked unlikely this time.

Gradually talk also circulated that Mark, who was looking a little rough around the edges despite some good sleep and a shower, had something to do with Sean's absence at school today. No one from the administration came to question Mark about it, and Mark was grateful. Given his complete lack of concern over Sean's condition, Mark might have said something flippant if asked about him. Something hilarious to him, but the school brass might not have shared Mark's sense of humor. Nothing specific was said to Mark at all about these rumors; but some girls and guys of all three grades at junior high gave Mark a new once-over, as if re-evaluating him and the status he was to hold at school. If the rumor really was true- if some of the clues and details being put together by the school grape-vine runners were accurate- Mark was due a promotion. He was starting to walk, talk and act like a boy much more deserving of people's attention- and if he'd won a fight with someone as big as Sean Walters, that attention might well be deserved.

The day didn't go quite like Mark had expected, though he certainly liked being the new cowboy on campus for a day. People paid more attention to him in class, in the halls- some with fear, some with respect. Mark didn't mind any of that- but he did mind the treatment he got from Alan Parks.

The two normally sat near each other in their morning science class, and in history just before lunch. But in each class, Mark was more than surprised to see Alan come in without a word to him, then take a seat across the room and ignore him throughout the class. Mark tried to catch him after history class, but Alan just shook him off and hurried away. The pattern continued at lunch, where Mark saw Alan head to another table, one a few tables over from the group he and Mark normally sat with, and stay there throughout the 20 minutes of lunch. Mark was not only baffled, he felt insulted. What did Alan think he was doing, snubbing Mark today of all days? And friends of theirs noticed it, and were rather puzzled- Mark started to get irritable when they gave him a bit of a ribbing for it. He was being ignored by a friend who, like it or not, owed him something- at the very least, owed Mark those two words of thanks. This was not funny.

Wesley, on the other hand, certainly seemed to think so. A lanky boy with a head of wavy, hazel-brown hair that hung low over his eyes in strands, Wesley was an energetic boy and the self-established joker of Mark's group of friends. He was well-liked by most students at his school, but like many jokers, Wesley was sometimes hampered by an inability to tell when his humor was not only failing to amuse, but starting to cause anger. Once in a while he would get pushed or yelled at, and the puzzled look on his face that followed was one of real, true confusion. But Wesley bounced back, always- and if he found someone was not in a good mood that day, or didn't like his jokes any day, he simply noted it and avoided them. Mark was really in no mood for Wesley's jokes that day, and when Wesley sat down he knew what was coming. Wesley, however, did not- he wasn't really aware of the new Mark he was dealing with now.

"Hey, _hey_!"

Mark looked up from his tray, where he'd been a corn dog nugget at some ketchup he had on the paper plate. Sitting down across from him was Wesley; the class joker was wearing his usual jeans and striped t-shirt with ABERCROMBIE or whatever written on it. He was fond of those brand-name, stereotypical-teenager-t-shirts. Mark found that kind of annoying- but noted that perhaps he ought to start paying better attention to the arbitrary school fashion trends that guys like Wesley were, somehow, so well in tune with.

"Hey, Wesley," Mark said, hoping the other kid would just take his seat, eat his food and pay attention to somebody else.

"Hey, big man!" Wesley grinned, sitting down and tossing a nugget from his plate to Mark's. When the other boy, he with the piercing blue eyes and the auburn hair, looked at him questioningly, Wesley just went right on grinning. "So you don't hurt _me_. I don't want the new school badass beatin' _me_ up, you know?"

Normally, Mark would have laughed at this, or at least smiled in appreciation. Wesley never mocked out of cruelty or for kicks, but he did have a great gift for poking fun at people. Mark was not happy about being snubbed by Alan, and he had a sense this wasn't just going to be for today. This might take a week or more to blow over.

"Come on, Wesley," Mark said, trying to ignore him. "Give it a rest, man."

Wesley just giggled, batting his hair out of his eyes. The joke was he would sometimes almost walk into lockers, cars, trees and plenty of other things- but it was a small price to pay for that lovely haircut. "I hope you give Sean a rest, dude. Man!" Wesley said, chuckling and looking around at the other guys at the table. "I didn't know you were the _type_, Mark! What happened, man? Your dick grow a few inches?"

Mark wanted to nod in the affirmative, but frankly that hadn't become much of a concern yet. He was thirteen, yes, but his body was mostly under the belief he was 12 years old still. Mark was sure- somehow- that when the time came, Mother Nature would be quite generous to him below the waist. That, however, was none of Wesley's damned business- and Mark did not at all care for the way Wesley was asking. It sounded, to say the least, like he was skeptical of that possibility.

"Well, wouldn't _you_ like to know, Wesley?" Mark said indifferently, hoping his tone would cause the other kid to lose interest and bother someone else. But Wesley was cheered by the appreciative guffaws of some of the other guys at the table. He suddenly got a wide-eyed, clearly theatrical look of surprise on his face. "Woah!" Wesley exclaimed, as if noticing the fading bruise on Mark's right cheekbone for the first time. "What happened to your face, man?"

What happened next- most importantly why- was almost anyone's guess. There was a sudden scraping sound as Mark stood up from his chair, and a crashing sound as Wesley's was thrown out from under him. With remarkable speed, Mark grabbed the other kid as his chin banged down painfully on the table, yanking him back up by two handfuls of his shirt. He pulled the lanky boy across the table until their noses almost touched. Wesley was breathing hard, panting rapidly almost like a hamster. "Is something the matter with my face?" Mark snarled, daring the other boy to keep up his stupid act.

Now Nicholas Wesley really did look surprised. In fact, looking at Mark's coldly furious eyes, dragged across his own tray with ketchup and spilled milk decorating his front, Wesley got a little scared. "N-no! No, y-y-you look fine!"

"You _sure_?"

"Yes!"

Mark pulled Wesley a little closer; many pairs of eyes outside of his own table were silently watching. "What's my name, asshole? Is it man, or dude? What?"

Panting even more like an overexcited gerbil, Wesley almost froze. "It's Mark," he said, and the other boy threw him back in his seat. "Try to remember it sometime," Mark snapped, sitting back down. He soon became aware of the many eyes still staring at him, and got up. Before turning away, though, he looked at Wesley, who was staring at him, wide-eyed, sprawled out in his seat. "Fucking clean this _shit_ up," Mark said, waving a hand dismissively at the mess of spilled milk and smeared ketchup on Wesley's tray. He then turned and grabbed his backpack, shouldering it and walking away. Behind him, he could hear Wesley say in a shaky voice, "Mark's a sensitive man, guys."

Mark's mind could offer only one answer to that. _Fucking-A_.

The next couple of days were similar, but at the same time very different. Mark's friends were definitely more respectful around him now, and Wesley was very cautious about including Mark in any of his jokes. The lanky boy sat at the other end of the table now, and was grateful that Mark left him alone as long as he wasn't included in any jokes. It made Wesley nervous, though, and a little sad- he remembered Mark as somebody who liked his sense of humor, and didn't mind being poked fun at once in a while. Maybe he was just having a bad week- or, if some of the things Wesley was hearing were true, a bad month. Or two months. Mark was generally a bit more short-tempered these days. He wasn't with everybody; for example, more than one kid had noticed the jocks at school giving Mark an easier time in PE class. He was doing better these days, holding his own in more than just soccer.

The end of the week wasn't long in coming. That whole time, Alan and Mark performed this awkward game of avoiding each other, or when they couldn't just pretending the other didn't exist. Mark noted with some pleasure, however, the fact that Alan was avoiding him; he, Mark, sat at the same table, occupied the same seat in classes they shared. Alan was the one moving and trying to avoid him. Mark was annoyed, and vowed not to forget Alan's failure- thus far- to thank him for taking Sean Walters out of their lives for a day. By Friday, Sean had been back for a few days, but he kept away from Alan and Mark, and overall didn't bother kids as much as he usually would have. Many of the school's downtrodden rejoiced, and Mark gained some hero status in the eyes of many of the smaller boys. When he became aware of this, Mark smiled and nodded, accepting the newfound adoration of these weaker boys- but inwardly starting to wonder if Sean didn't have the right idea.

Not in the way _he_ did it; Sean was a rather stupid boy, relying too much on what muscle he possessed and not enough on real finesse or skill in fighting. He also lacked vision.

Sean was just interested in making weaker kids fear him, in putting them down so he felt bigger and better. The only thing he gained, aside from that, was small amounts of money when he shook a kid down for his lunch money.

Mark, instead, accepted the thanks and secret admiration of these weaker boys. For one thing, they might not always be weak forever, and even if Mark chose to beat a kid or two up now and then- something he would have never even _considered_ before meeting Henry- he would still have the admiration of his junior high school's weak boys. Just so long as he was, overall, better than Sean, they'd pick Mark any day of the week.

And with the end of the week came the first game of the spring season. The Calvin A. Harris Junior High School soccer team was in the off season now, with only a handful of games to play before the end of the school year. Today's game was against the David Panning Middle School's Tigers. The Wildcats of Harris Junior High had good prospects for winning; they'd been training steadily even in the off season, and they had a great team, with no small number of boys who played for love of the sport and had a clear future with it. Coach Gates was a competent coach, good at discerning the best and fiercest of his boys, and bringing their talent to the forefront.

Today, on this balmy February Friday, Mark Evans was one of those boys. He'd been hitting the field lately as if he was training for the World Cup, and came awfully close to getting a foul called on him during more than one practice. In the locker room, more than one of the guys razzed Mark about his newfound spirit- and for the new firmness and strength he was gaining about his arms, chest and stomach.

There wasn't much fat on Mark ever, but he was just beginning to turn truly muscular for the first time. Mark, smirking at the compliments he knew he was being given, just shrugged it off and took it all in stride. His workouts at home, in the quiet of his room at night before going to bed, were starting to pay off. Henry had advised him it was something both of them would want to start paying attention to; fitness and strength was important for many reasons, and in more than one way junior high was just that- the training ground for the real thing. Less petty bullshit, more cars and parties. More _independence_. That was when stuff really got interesting, but junior high was a good way of getting ready for that.

Before the game, Mark bantered back and forth with the rest of the boys, enjoying the new status he was starting to hold. The team's stronger, more popular players were taking him more seriously now, and Alan Parks couldn't do much besides watch. In the past, he and Mark had both been defensive players; now, Mark was on the offense. The tall, black-haired Jake Schwarz had liked Mark's new aggressiveness, and even half-jokingly suggested that Mark tip things in the Wildcats' favour by taking the risk of a foul to hurt somebody. Mark had grinned at that suggestion while the boys talked and joked in the locker room, in a way Alan Parks very much didn't like. Whereas most boys would have just laughed the suggestion off and left it at that, Mark for once looked like he wanted to do it.

Mark's new dedication to all things physical paid off well on the soccer field; he started the February 15th game on the field, initially a midfielder but soon shifted to full-time offense as a forward. Mark was casting a cold grin or two at the opposing team the game got started at 4:30pm, a full forty-five minutes after the end of 7th hour. His heart sang as the adrenaline began hitting his system, as he sprinted about all over the field, shifting forward and backward with remarkable ease.

A fine sheen of sweat soon coated his body, and Mark's heart pounded as he battled the Tigers for possession of the ball for a full twenty minutes. There was a brief time out as both teams talked strategy with their coaches; Coach Gates was quite pleased with Mark for having scored their first goal of the game in the first ten minutes. It had been too easy, really; Mark just worked with Jake to break through the Tigers' defense, sending it rapidly back and forth between the two of them. Then, taking a pass from Jake, Mark had broken out into the open and sent the ball on to the goal with such speed the goalie hesitated, considering diving out of the way. His hesitation meant the ball got in easily, and they resumed the first half with Mark's team in the lead.

Typical of junior high students, most of CHJH's student body didn't care too much about the soccer team's game today. They headed home when classes ended, indifferent to the outcome of the game. But some stayed to watch, and plenty of parents of boys from both teams were there in the stands. Jack Evans was there, always determined to show support for his son. For once, though, Mark seemed to have no need for it; though he was sweating and breathing hard, Mark seemed to keep driving himself harder and harder, blasting through the defense countless times during the first half. He scored one more goal during the first forty-five minutes, sweat soaking his auburn hair as he yelled with joy, slapping sweaty palms with the other offensive boys and pumping a fist in the air.

Up in the stands, more than just parents were watching Mark's new, fiery and relentless drive on the field with interest. A few girls from his grade- or the 6th and 8th- were watching, noticing as if for the first time how cute the Evans boy was. He was no pillar of teenage might- not yet, it might have been better to say- but he had finesse, skill, and damn if he didn't have fire. Mark played like he was trying to drive the enemy clear off the field, to break their spirit and make them call it a day. More than once Coach Gates had to caution him, to urge him to scale back some of his aggressiveness; the referees had come awfully close to calling a foul on him more than once this game, the first time even that had happened for Mark.

That ended up happening in the final moments of the first half. Mark was pursuing Number Nine, one of the better offensive players for the Tigers, as the boy lead an effort to push through the Wildcat's defenses and even up the score. The two were right near each other, practically running side by side. Mark, knowing there was a fifty-fifty chance he'd get caught, took Jake's advice. He deliberately crossed his right leg in front of the Number Nine boy's left, and it worked about as well as he could've hoped. Nine went down hard, crying out in pain as something unpleasant happened to his left knee. Mark made sure to go down too, but he rolled, recovered, and was on his feet and away just as the whistle blew.

Pointing at Mark as the boys all halted, one of the refs took out a yellow card and held it up. Mark shouted in protest, as did Jake Schwarz, who secretly was thrilled at the pained wail he'd heard from the other team's player. That boy was probably going to have to sit out the game, and while he wasn't their best player, he was a long way from their worst. Mark had done the Wildcats a good service today- and to hell with whether it was fair. Jake Schwarz played to win.

In the stands, Jack almost forgot about the score, nearly forgot all about being pleased that his son was doing well on the field, scoring goals and really making a difference for his team. As the first half ended, Jack was just stunned.

Mark had gotten a foul. He'd gotten a _foul_! It might have been an accident that he tripped that other boy; after all, they'd both gone down together. But Mark had gotten up awfully quick, and seen that his team retook possession of the ball with a single-mindedness that made Jack wonder if he'd even noticed the injury he'd caused to the other player's knee. It wasn't severe- probably just a strained muscle or something similar- but Number Nine of the Tigers limped off the field at the end of the first half, and didn't look likely to come back this game. Mark, meanwhile, was heatedly discussing the end of the first half with his buddies on the team- many of them new buddies apparently, as Jack had been unaware Mark and Jake Schwarz were such good buddies before.

Another person was at the game, watching Mark with no small amount of interest. Sean Walters, Eric Parker and Chad Few were all watching the game, making sure to stay off to the side and away from where Mark might look up and see them. Sean had talked Chad and Eric into this; he was sure that Mark would want to walk home on a balmy day like this, and that he'd very likely go alone given the sudden rift between him and Alan Parks. It was a setup, too good a chance for payback to be believed- or to pass up. And Mark would be tired, worn out from the game- between that and the simple fact that it was one on three, there was no way at all Mark Evans could win.

Sean felt pleased as he watch that little auburn-haired twerp run himself ragged all over the field as the second half began, charging the enemy's defense like George Patton was his coach. Number Thirteen on the Wildcats was really giving it his all today, and Sean noted this with a smile, knowing it would mean he would have less to give later. However, something about Mark's manner made him pause, just the same as it did for Jack Evans and a few others. Mark was sweating hard, breathing hard, playing hard- but he didn't seem to be getting all that tired. The more worked up he got, the harder he played, and his reserve of energy seemed endless. Nobody had ever seen Mark so lively before; he was not one of the lightweights like he'd been. He was out there, hitting the field with the best on either team, not even caring about the two penalty kicks he handed the other team because of his play in the second half.

The refs didn't like this Evans boy at all; he seemed like he was just aching to come right out and be insubordinate, instead of just secretly smug and insolent. He seemed to think every penalty he earned was a compliment- a signal, perhaps, that he was doing his job well. Even so, he walked the line carefully enough that the yellow card he got was it, the only major foul he committed all game. Mark cheered and yelled at the game's end; it was a near-shutout, with a final score of 50-20. The boy with the smooth auburn hair and the piercing blue eyes was the most hated- and loved- player on the Wildcats' soccer team that day. The Tigers went home cursing his name, but Jake Schwarz and his boys praised it all the more. Alan Parks avoided taking part in much of the celebrating that followed in the locker room, Mark's playful fighting with Jake and the other 8th grade boys just reinforcing Alan's feeling that Mark Evans was very possibly turning into a jerk.

Outside in the bleachers, Sean and his buddies got up and left as the game ended, carefully noting the conversation the Evans kid seemed to be having with his dad. Mark was elated at having won, and even more so at having achieved a new personal triumph by scoring three goals- the most he'd ever done in a game. Mr. Evans was proud, impressed at his son's performance- but perhaps, also concealing a bit of unease over Mark's newfound aggressiveness. Mark didn't seem to know this was just a middle school soccer game, not as clearly as he used to. If he played, he played to win, and that was it. There wasn't anything wrong with that philosophy, per se- but it was not one Jack Evans was used to seeing in Mark.

Regardless, as Sean, Eric and Chad hung back to observe the conversation, hidden at a distance among the departing crowd, they soon saw what they wanted. Jack headed off to his Wrangler in the parking lot, and Mark returned to the locker room to shower, change and most importantly of all, walk home.

That had been just what Sean was waiting for. As he and his two friends walked across the grassy lawn surrounding Calvin Harris Junior High, heading for the woods out back where Mark would likely go, Sean gingerly touched a hand to his nose. Mark hadn't broken anything during that fight early this week, but he had bruised a lot. And where Sean's nose was concerned, Sean had a feeling that Evans kid had come close- even now his nose was still sore.

_Plenty of time to pay him back for that_, Sean thought.

"Dude," Eric said, "you sure he's gonna go this way?"

"Yeah, man," Chad added, "What if he doesn't show?"

"He'll show," Sean said, shifting his backpack on his shoulders as they headed for the edge of the woods. "Look, after Tuesday-"

"After he kicked your ass," Chad said with a smirk, as Eric sniggered. Sean's face heated some, but he kept his voice level as he continued, "After _Tuesday_, that dork Evans thinks he's got me scared of him now. You've seen him. He's walking around like he's got a ten inch cock all of a sudden."

"Yeah," Chad said with a nod, remembering his own observations of the past week. "It's pretty fucking annoying."

"Twerps like him need to mind their place," Eric said.

"Well," Sean said with a smile, "today we're gonna fix that for Mark. We're nice guys, really. We wanna help him."

Sean's mind turned suddenly, though, to another side of the situation he was facing. Three-on-one odds made victory certain, and Mark Evans would surely be taught a lesson in humility today. One he'd never forget. But while Chad and Eric didn't much like Mark Evans either, and had readily enough agreed to help Sean beat him up after school, Sean knew he hadn't heard the last of them on this one.

They'd give him grief over it for the rest of this year for sure- maybe for longer than that. Sean didn't like that idea- these two were hard enough to keep in line as it was. But Sean also knew that the help he had today was necessary. As much as he hated to admit it, he no longer felt safe taking on Mark Evans by himself. So he'd arranged for some help, and was willing to pay the price that came with it. Anything would be worth it, just as long as the beating Mark Evans got today convinced him to stop strutting around school like he was Clint Eastwood. Anything at all.


	9. Chapter 9- Round Two

**Chapter IX- Round Two**

* * *

"See you, Jake," Mark called, shouldering his backpack as he walked out of the soccer field's locker room. He cast a glance at the two 'victory cigarettes' he and Jake had smoked after the others had left; tough and mature beyond his years, Jake was one of the only boys Mark knew on the team who really seemed to like it as a habit, rather than as some bullshit façade to impress friends with.

Jake, setting off for the parking lot and his home a few blocks away, waved back. His green eyes were alive and cheerful beneath his buzz-cut of black hair, and he smiled, genuinely pleased with not only Mark's performance today, but the new kid he was becoming. Some of the older, more popular boys were really starting to wonder about Mark Evans now. If, perhaps, they hadn't been wrong about him before. In past years, Jake had laughed at Mark sometimes. Never directly pushed him around, but he hadn't stopped any of it either. Mark was a nice kid, smart- he had potential. But he was too moralistic, too cautious- in short, too much of a wuss. Not many of the cool kids wanted to hang out with somebody like that. But now? Mark was starting to become somebody Jake really liked.

The older boy's eyebrows had gone up more than a little when not only had Mark taken part in the celebratory play-fighting and roughhousing after the game, but he'd been the one who suggested to Jake that the team captain and star offense player have a smoke after the game. "I didn't think you were the type, Mark," Jake had remarked with a smile. The Evans kid had just shrugged at that, a casual gesture with a slight smirk on his face. "I'm learning the habit," he said. And indeed, so he had- the two had just sat there in the locker room, towels around their shoulders, breathing the tobacco in and out nice and regular.

Jake tried not to admit to himself that he was studying Mark's chest and shoulders, but here after the game, he was again impressed- Mark Evans wasn't such a wimp anymore. He really was starting to look like somebody to reckon with. Thus far nobody had seem him in the weight room at school or in any gyms around the area, but a determined individual could make a fair amount of progress all by himself. That certainly seemed the case with Mark.

As Jake headed home, he made a note to include Mark on his team of jocks next time there was a game in PE class. Mark looked like he might be up to their standards now.

Meanwhile, Mark ground out the cigarette butts and tossed them in a trash can, then shifted his backpack over his shoulders and began the walk home. He wasn't entirely sure why he wanted to walk home himself today; maybe it was just so he could smoke another cigarette out in the woods. Mark did like the feeling of being a rebellious kid, a rule-breaking teenager, that doing that gave him. He also liked the feel of the nicotine, and of course, the connection it gave him with Henry. Both boys secretly smoked a cigarette now and then, and Mark's first smoke had been with Henry. It was an odd way for the two of them to begin to bond, but Henry didn't do things like most boys. And, these days, neither did Mark.

Walking steadily and calmly, Mark took a deep breath as he walked across the grassy field behind the school, glancing up at the white clouds scattered around the blue sky. That cigarette had felt good; so had smoking it with Jake Schwarz, captain of the soccer team and one of the coolest kids in school. Mark had felt very nervous taking out his pack and lighter as the other boys began to head home, offering Jake a chance to hang back and smoke. But Jake, though visibly startled, had accepted- and talked with Mark casually, in a way that Mark felt like he was really gaining a chance to step up and have some cool friends. Guys like Wesley and Alan Parks might not suffice for much longer.

Even if Alan Parks did get around to thanking Mark- an act that would soon be a full week overdue- he was still a sissy. Mark, walking past the edge of the treeline and into the woods behind the junior high school, couldn't make sense of it. All he was doing was repeating the process of what Henry had done for him. Break down the old barriers, teach him to forget that old fearful and cautious nature. It just wasn't worth it. You had to take risks if you wanted to live any sort of life worth talking about. Alan hadn't learned that yet. If he would only open his mind and listen, he would learn it from Mark- just as Mark had learned from Henry.

Mark felt real gratitude towards his cousin when he thought of his impatience with Alan's fearfulness and hesitation. Had Mark ever really been that much of a wuss? Henry must have been holding onto his patience with both hands sometimes. But Henry had resolved to be patient, to stick with Mark and not quit on him. Mark, meanwhile, decided he'd at least give Alan another chance. He'd try to help Alan, get him moving along the path towards real manhood. But if Alan refused? Well, Mark might just find a new punching bag. He smiled savagely at the idea; the memory of Alan Parks puking his guts out a few days ago was kind of funny.

Mark was so preoccupied with his thoughts about Alan Parks, about Henry, and about Jake Schwarz and winning the soccer game today, that he hardly even noticed the kid standing there was he passed by one particularly large tree.

"Mark, my man," Sean Walters said in a casual, cheerful voice. "What's up?"

"I thought I smelled a bitch," Mark said, trying out one of the new words Henry had taught him in their back-and-forth phone calls as he turned around. Sean normally would have flushed in embarrassment, or anger- he was not used to the scrawny dorks of this school talking back to him like that. But nothing that little wiseass Evans said was gonna bother him. Not today.

"Hey, Mark," Eric said, stepping out from behind another tree- he'd stayed out of sight behind it as Mark had passed by. Chad came into view from another tree, and now the three 8th grade boys formed a triangle around Mark, still some ten feet away but closing slowly. Each wore that same lazy, confident smile- like the fight was just a formality and the three of them had already won.

Ignoring Eric and Chad, Mark turned back to Sean, who stood back with his arms crossed and a grin on his face, savouring the moment. "Three on one, huh?" Mark breathed, his voice growing tense as he prepared for the fight to come. "Those odds don't sound stacked enough for you, Sean. Why don't you just run home to your _mommy_? We both _know _you _want_ to."

Now Sean's grin vanished, and his face did flush in embarrassment. He'd had enough of this. Gesturing furiously at Mark, Sean yelled, "Get 'im!" and both Chad and Eric waded in with raised fists. After a moment, Sean moved in himself.

For just a moment or two after Sean gave the order, Mark was still. It seemed like he had just frozen in place, somehow unable to movie. The three boys around him smiled, taking this as reason for encouragement. Perhaps the little Evans twerp had frozen out of fear, and all he could really do well was talk a good game. And play soccer, which to good old, all-American boys like Sean, Chad and Eric was a sissy's game anyway.

Chad began to laugh as he moved in, amazed at how Mark was still not moving.

He was still laughing when Mark spun around, lashing out with a backwards kick at Chad and slammed his palm into Eric's chest. Both boys were thrown back, hitting the ground hard and gasping for air- and wondering what the hell had just happened.

Sean, meanwhile, wasn't playing any games this time. His eyes widened in fear when he saw Mark strike out against two opponents at once, but that was just more of his fancy karate gimmicks. Sean had muscle, and fists plenty big enough to teach this Evans kid some manners. He was stronger than Mark; all Sean needed to do was close in and prove it.

Mark turned around after a glance at Sean, suddenly very interested as Eric and Chad struggled to get up. "All right, jerkoff," Sean snarled, grabbing Mark in a headlock. "There goes your ass!"

He was gonna strangle this little dork. Beat him up, stomp him good in the nuts, choke him unconscious- and then just leave him out here, and let him sort out the mess after Sean and his buddies dumped his backpack out and tossed its contents all over the woods.

Suddenly, though, just as Sean got an arm around Mark's neck, he whipped an arm back, driving an elbow into Sean's stomach. Blinding pain filled Sean's vision, and he gasped hard, staggering back and trying hard not to puke. Suddenly, a figure charged into his field of vision, and in an instant Sean was slammed backwards, thrown to the ground. A foot planted on his chest, and Sean looked up to see Mark Evans, standing above him with a flushed, sweaty grin of triumph on his face.

"I could break your nose now," Mark taunted, exulting in the power he now wielded in hand-to-hand fighting. He hoped he could get in a fight like this every day. Mark considered, raising his foot. "Too bad, Sean," he said, knowing just how to hit the kid's face and break his nose. "That was _such_ a _handsome_ nose."

Sean, stunned by the vicious blow his head had taken when he hit the ground, struggled to rise, but Mark just slammed him down again and lifted his foot a second time.

"_Yaaaaah_!" Chad flew in from the right in an expert tackle, grabbing Mark Evans about the legs as the two crashed to the ground. The younger boy began to struggle fiercely, and Chad yelled at Sean and Eric. "Come on, guys!" he shouted, "Get over here!"

"Get your hands _off_ me, mother_fucker_!" Mark yelled, fighting to break free. He rocked from side to side, trying to throw Chad off; sitting up and pinning Mark down, Chad held on with grim determination. If Mark broke free now, anything could happen. This kid was a fighter.

After just moments, though, Sean got to his feet and hurried over, breathing hard as he drew back a shoe and slammed it into Mark's head. The younger boy shouted in pain and anger, but Sean just kicked him again, grinding some dirt in for good measure. Mark kept up his fierce battle for freedom, but Eric came over then. His freckled face was flushed and angry, and he barked, "Pick him up!" at Sean and Chad. Sean almost refused; he was the boss of this group! But he had a good feeling about what Eric wanted to do. Kicking Mark in the ear yet again, Sean was pleased to note the repeated kicks to the head had stunned Mark a little, disoriented him somewhat. He wasn't fighting quite so well now. Grabbing one of his arms, Sean and Chad forced him to his feet.

Without any witty comment or pause for effect, Eric shot out a foot and kicked Mark Evans between his legs. Sean and Chad let go and laughed as the Evans kid collapsed, curling up reflexively and clutching his privates.

"Not so tough _now_, are ya?" Sean breathed, and kicked Mark hard in the ribs. "No more funny jokes? No more big talk?" Sean kicked Mark again. He grunted in pain, struggling to rise, but Eric just stomped on his leg, pinning it down. Chad kicked him in the stomach, and from there the melee began.

_Get up, asshole_!

Mark could hear his cousin's voice in his mind. So clearly, in fact, it was like Henry was yelling in his hear. He remembered their first sparring match, the first time Henry had told Mark he needed to toughen him up, teach him how to fight. _You have to keep moving_, Henry had said. _In a fight you have to keep moving, never stop moving, otherwise you're dead_.

The auburn-haired boy fought to get up, but blows came at him hard and fast, soon from every direction as the three 8th graders circled him, kicking and punching at will. The pain rolling around in his balls was excruciating, and Mark just couldn't make any effort to stand get anywhere. As soon as they saw his legs moving, trying to get his feet standing flat again, the older boys just pinned his legs down and kept going.

_Keep moving_! Henry's voice yelled, but Mark balled up and put his hands over his head, feeling rage and humiliation as he cowered there in the dirt. He wanted to fight back, to keep moving because to stand still in a fight was to know death. It was what he had to do… yet Mark couldn't. He balled up, shielding himself from the blows as best he could. Eventually- finally- they stopped.

There was a zipping sound as each one of the compartments in Mark's backpack was opened, and it was promptly turned over and dumped out on the ground. Eric and Chad began tossing notebooks, textbooks and writing utensils to the four winds, but Chad grinned as he picked out a golden-cased Zippo and a pack of Camels. He knelt by Mark, who was still balled up in the dirt, taking care to grind a little more of it onto the boy's upturned, bleeding right ear with his shoe. "Thanks for the cigarettes, asshole," Sean said. "You got a nice lighter."

The other two boys laughed, and after a time they got bored and left. Mark waited a few minutes, just breathing and letting the pain fade, before he stood up. He groaned as he did so, and it took some real effort to stand upright- that blow to his special place had caused a special agony that faded slowly, reluctantly, and did not look like it was leaving anytime soon. Every inch of Mark ached; he had dirt all over him, and he could tell he was probably scratched, bruised and bleeding in more than a handful of places. Mark wanted a cigarette, but then he remembered his pack was gone. And his lighter. And his books and everything else were scattered all over the damn woods now. Mark swore violently as he gathered his things, brushed off what dirt he could and began to limp home. This day had gotten shitty real fast.

At home, Mark paused at the door. He knew his appearance would give away what happened. There was dirt all over his jeans and t-shirt, and his face was grimy. His left ear was sore, probably with blood still drying on it. Any fool could tell Mark had just been in a fight, and lost.

Mark made his way inside quietly, hoping he'd be left alone. Unfortunately, after today's win, it was enough that Jack had let his son walk home- he'd been rather surprised at that, but allowed it since Mark did sometimes like walking. Jack had been working in his office, waiting for his son to come home. When he heard the door shut, Jack got up and hurried over to the front door. Mark was late getting back- as much as half an hour later than Jack had expected him to return. Maybe he'd just liked t take his time- or maybe something had come up. In any case, Jack made his way to the front door, and was shocked by what he saw when he got there.

The boy with the auburn hair, Number Thirteen on the school soccer team, was a mess. His red t-shirt was caked with dirt on the front, and his jeans were mottled with it as well. Mark's face, grimy and dirty with dried blood on his right ear, was grim. He wore a sullen, bitter expression, and upon seeing his father really had very little to say. Nothing at all, in fact. He just stood there, having already guessed he had missed his chance to go upstairs to his room, unmolested.

"Mark!" Jack exclaimed, rushing to him. "Mark, what _happened_? Are you all right, is everything okay? What _happened_?"

"Nothing," Mark lied.

But Jack just shook his head, not fooled for a moment. "Mark," he said seriously, "Something _obviously_ happened. You're half an hour late getting back, and _anybody_ could see there's a reason why." Mark just stared bitterly around his father, avoiding his eyes. "_Nothing _happened," Mark repeated, wishing his dad would just drop it and leave it alone.

Jack suddenly got an idea, and an angry look sparked in his eyes. "Was it that bully again? Sean Walters?"

Mark said nothing, which to Jack was just as good as a "Yes". Kneeling in front of Mark and setting his hands on Mark's shoulders- they were getting a little stronger every day, it seemed- Jack looked right at Mark, right into those blue eyes that were so intently avoiding his. "Mark," the elder Evans said seriously, "This is _serious_. If you keep letting these things happen, no part of it's gonna do you _any_ good. I mean it."

"I can take care of myself, Dad," Mark said tersely, looking him in the eyes for the first time since he'd come inside.

Jack shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with asking for help on _this,_ Mark," he said. "This kid is gonna _hurt_ you if you don't put a stop to it."

_I'm trying_, Mark thought angrily, and he very much intended to put a stop to it. But Mark knew his way- Henry's way, before that- was not going to be something Jack would want to hear. He would call that fighting fire with fire, playing the bully's game. Mark thought that just fine, but knew his father wouldn't.

When Mark didn't say anything else and just went on standing there and looking angry, Jack stood up. He was resolved that something be done about this. "I'm gonna give the school a call tomorrow, Mark," Jack said. "We're gonna put a stop to this. Sean's gonna have to leave you alone for good."

"I can _take care_ of _myself_!" Mark exploded, his eyes flashing in anger. "I'm thirteen years old! I don't _need_ you calling the school! I don't _want_ you calling the school! Just-just let me alone! I don't need any help!"

"Mark!" Jack exclaimed, shocked beyond words. "What's gotten _into_ you? Don't you realise I'm on _your_ side? I'm _trying_ to help you!"

"You can _help_ by leaving me _alone_!" Mark shot back. "I'm _thirteen_ now- stop treating me like a _kid_!"

"You don't have to fight your battles by yourself, Mark!"

"_I_ _want to_!" Mark shouted, his temper rising fast. Abruptly, he turned and stormed upstairs, leaving an angry and frustrated Jack to stand there in the entrance hallway. This was strange. It was more than that- it was bizarre, and Jack didn't like it one bit. Why was Mark acting like this? He was playing harder at soccer now than he'd ever done in the past ten years. He was on a constant short-fuse, it seemed, and the only one he really seemed to want to talk to was Henry. And what was this fierce insistence on fighting his own battles? Why did that suddenly matter so much to Mark?

Jack sighed, walking back to his office and deciding to just wait it out. Maybe this was the onset of Mark's teenage years; Jack had hoped to avoid all the short-tempered, needless arguments and newfound rebellion against authority. He'd been hoping to help Mark navigate through adolescence easily, and to see him come out unscathed. Perhaps, like so many other parents before him, Jack was just going to have to do this the hard way.

While Jack attempted to return to some of his end-of-the-day work and wait for Mark to calm down so they could go pick up a pizza or something, his son wandered out into the upstairs hallway, picking up the wireless set that sat on an end table near the upstairs bathroom. Dialing a number he knew well by memory, Mark wandered back into his room, flopped down on his bed, and waited to hear his cousin's sweet, oily voice.

_Boop…boop…_

"Evans residence, Henry speaking," the blonde boy stated in his best diplomatic voice.

"Henry," Mark breathed, more a sigh of relief than anything. "Henry, where's everybody else?"

"Huh?" Henry said, puzzled- and beginning to sense something wrong. There was just something off about Mark's voice. He didn't sound all that happy, and he normally did when they talked, if only because he was talking to Henry. "Mom and Dad took Connie out to get some new clothes and stuff for school. Why, what's going on?"

"Henry," Mark began again, running a hand through his hair and feeling a renewed rush of anger when he saw dirt fall out of it. Turning his attention back to his cousin, Mark said without preamble, "I got my ass kicked today."

There was a pause; for perhaps a second or two, Henry said nothing at all. Then Mark heard a clunk as the phone dropped, and a loud crashing sound. Like Henry had kicked over a chair in his room or something. And with that noise came a furious scream, the sound of a boy who wanted very much to retaliate against his brother's enemies but was powerless to do anything about it.

"SON OF A _BITCH_!" Henry screamed, with such force Mark feared for his cousin's vocal cords.

After a few more moments- and another kicked-over chair- Henry picked up the phone again, sighing as he tried to control his elevated breathing. "Mark," Henry said with effort, "You still there?"

"Yeah," Mark said, startled and touched at the same time by his cousin's fury on his behalf.

"All right," Henry said, his voice steadying as he got an idea. "Listen."


	10. Chapter 10- Hitting Back

**Chapter X- Hitting Back**

* * *

For that whole weekend, Mark took his time. He slept in on Saturday, getting up around ten in the morning instead of his usual seven or eight. He did his usual range of exercises that morning, and would do them again at night. Then came his karate practice that afternoon; Mark had a special plan for this weekend as far as that went. While there at the dojo, Mark threw himself into the lessons with a passion, always being the first to volunteer whenever sensei Mr. Jennings needed someone for a demonstration. During sparring matches, Mark had more fight in him than any other boy in the class; more than once he had to be reminded these were only sparring matches, and that full-contact moves were not allowed. They weren't aiming to hurt or kill anyone here, and with some reproach sensei Mr. Jennings had to remind Mark of that.

"You're just sparring, Mark," Jennings told him during a break, after Mark had won yet another match that day. "Just try to remember that."

But the auburn-haired Evans boy just smirked a little, shrugging in his white training uniform. "Thinking like that," Mark said, "is exactly why Mike lost."

It was a difficult point to counter- especially since Mark and Mr. Jennings both knew that most if not all real-world uses of the hand-to-hand skills dojos like Mr. Jennings' taught were in circumstances where the danger was real and the opponents held little back. But Mark Evans sought victory single-mindedly, whether he was training on some move individually or practicing in a match with one of the other boys. He fought to win, plain and simple, and had no sense of 'play', no matter how you tried to explain it.

The other boys were rather mixed in their opinions of Mark Evans. Some respected him, a few even admired him. Just about all of the boys at Mark's age and below, to a boy, were afraid of Mark. He was aware of their fear and admiration, and didn't seem to mind either. The boys in his class were starting to figure out, though, that whenever they partnered up against Mark Evans, they were almost always fated to lose. Some lasted longer than others, but pretty much every boy who fought Mark on the mat ended up hitting it a few minutes- or moments- later.

When Jack Evans arrived to pick up his son at three in the afternoon that Saturday, February 11, Mark greeted him cheerfully as always. Jack was grateful to see this form of Mark back, the cheerful, well-mannered boy rather than the grumbling, surly teenager. A few appearances of that side of Mark had been made already, and Jack wasn't eager to see any more. Today, though, Mark had an interesting request: he wanted some weights. Nothing major- at least, not yet- but ankle and wrist weights, and a pair of basic ten-pound dumbbells.

"Mark?" Jack asked, kind of startled at the request. He'd seen indications of this now and again in the time since last December, but it was still surprising. Mark was such an enthusiast about physical fitness all of a sudden; previously, a liking for soccer had been about as far as he'd gone in that direction. Of course, Mark _was_ thirteen now, and went to school with boys a year older- by 7th or 8th grade, nearly all boys began changing their behavior and thinking as puberty began to make its impact.

Being a teenager would mean wanting to run, do pushups, building up that body for the days on the beach yet to come- days when the "cute" boys would start to become "hot" ones in the eyes of their female classmates. Maybe it made plenty of sense that Mark should want to start building himself up physically; it made Jack want to smile, thinking that his Mark wanted to impress the girls. Of course, there was another angle to it- maybe he really was serious about what he'd said on Friday. Maybe Mark really did want to start taking charge of his life, solving things his own way- and that would include wanting to have the strength to defend himself against guys like Sean Walters, next time that problem came his way. Jack supposed that made sense, too.

Mark couldn't rely on the system to do his fighting for him forever, and especially not if he had serious ambitions of being one of the cool boys at his school. The popular boys got things done themselves. They didn't need to go to the principal with their problems- in the attitude of most American teenagers, Jack knew, such methods as that were in the past, the stuff of elementary school. More importantly, in the eyes of the American teenager, nothing was more laughable than a tattle-tale, and no individual was more loathed than the snitch.

Lastly, Mr. Jennings happened to come over to speak with Jack, remarking again about how well Mark was doing in class. Mark had not only talked with Mr. Jennings about his wish to get some weights to work with at home, but after some clever maneuvering had actually come close to convincing Mr. Jennings it was the sensei's idea.

"Mark really could make good use of a basic set, Mr. Evans," Jennings said as the two men talked, watching while Mark talked amiably with Jake Schwarz as he and a group of older boys arrived for the next class. The two were clearly retelling the story of their team's victory on the soccer field Friday; Jack found Mark's indignance over the foul he'd been given both amusing and unsettling. He was good-natured about it, having that frustration all athletes did with decisions referees made that they didn't like. But at the same time, Mark had hurt that other kid- and didn't seem to remember that at all.

"Mr. Evans?" the karate instructor said, looking at him curiously.

"Oh, sorry," Jack said. He hadn't realised he'd been spacing out a bit there. Finally, he considered both Mark's request for the basic set of weights, Mr. Jennings' opinion in favour of the idea, and Jack's own thoughts about why Mark was asking. Everything seemed to point towards Mark getting the weights. "I'll see what Wally World has next time I'm by," Jack said with a slight smile, referencing that nickname Wal-Mart had acquired somewhere over the years.

The rest of Saturday passed by easily enough. Jack a delighted Mark by Wal-Mart to get his first set of weights, and Mark promptly spent the next hour after dinner that evening lifting the two ten-pounders, stripped to the waist and pausing now and then to admire his slowly- but steadily- growing biceps. Jack passed by once in the upstairs hallway and noticed this, and couldn't help but be amused- and in a way, proud. Mark was growing up, all right.

By Sunday, the worst of Mark's bruises were starting to recede, and he seemed to have already started to leave whatever had happened on Friday behind him. When Jack carefully tried to ask what Mark planned to do- especially since Sean could always just come back and do it again- Mark had just shrugged a little, saying "I don't think he'll do it again". He mentioned that Sean had also been bothering Alan Parks and more than a few other boys lately; he'd move around, pick on somebody else. And Mark promised he'd talk to the principal's office if he had to- but only if he had to.

Truth was, though, Mark just said that to keep his dad calm. Neither of them had officially acknowledged that Sean Walters had fought Mark and won, but both of them had a good sense the other knew it.

Sunday night, though, was what Mark was really waiting for. He'd talked things over with Henry and knew just what he was going to do. It was a good plan; simple, easy to remember, and with one clear purpose in mind.

Tonight, after his father went to bed… Mark was going to get out of the house. He was going to make his way out of his neighborhood, about a mile up Falconbridge Road, the two-lane street that connected most of the neighborhoods in Mark's area. Mark would then make his way to 4677 Kingsmere Road, a house that conveniently stood parallel to Falconbridge itself. 4677 Kingsmere had a basic picket fence backed by wire- just enough to mark the boundaries and keep the household cocker spaniel inside.

The plan was simple.

Mark was going to kill that fucking dog. He heard Sean was rather fond of it, and one thing Henry made sure to emphasize was that if you wanted to get to somebody, you had to hit them where they lived. Mark's instinct- something he had mentioned to Henry in their conversation Friday- was, if he lost a fight with his fists, to come back with a knife. If he lost the fight with a knife, he'd come back with an aluminum bat. "And if I lose the fight with the bat," Mark said in a heated voice, "The guy I'm fighting had better kill me. I'd better be fuckin' dead. Because if I'm not, I'll come back with a gun."

"I'd cry at your funeral, Mark," Henry had said with a mix of humor and reproach in his voice. "Don't get me thinking about that." He sounded like he was kidding, but beneath it Mark could hear a twinge of sadness; like Henry couldn't bear to hear Mark's death even joked about.

"Sorry, man," Mark had said, trying to keep a smile in his voice- but feeling real regret over having joked over so serious a matter.

"And let me tell you something," Henry said, his voice a deadly calm to make even a howling Maine winter wind go still. "Nobody's ever gonna hurt you, Mark."

"Why?" Mark remembered saying, although he already had a good idea of the answer. Henry didn't talk like that much… but when he did, when that tone came into his speech, Henry never joked. He meant what he said.

"Because if they do," Henry had almost whispered, "I'm gonna find 'em. Wherever they go, wherever they are, I'll find them… and I'll fucking kill them. I'll do it if it takes me twenty years."

Mark had shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the weather outside, or the perfectly even temperature of his room. Suddenly he had a vision of his sudden death, perhaps at the hands of either Sean Walters or somebody like him- the result of a fight, maybe, one that went too far… And in that same moment, standing in the dark of his room as the sun went down, Mark saw Henry Evans, that handsome blonde kid with the icy-cold blue eyes just vanishing. Literally disappearing, gone from all knowledge and ability of any man to locate. But everywhere and nowhere in the world simultaneously- everywhere shadows and dark places existed- Henry Evans would exist. For a week or two months or thirty-five years, he would hunt the dark places of the world, the places where few dared tread… he would pursue Mark's killer with a fury even Hell's demons couldn't overcome. And in the end, no matter how far he had to go or how much trouble it took, Henry would avenge his brother. There was absolutely no doubt.

"I know all that," Mark said quietly, controlling his voice against the emotion he felt.

"Yeah," Henry said, and the two of them laughed nervously as the powerful emotion of the moment passed.

So after that, the topic of conversation had shifted to The Plan. Again, it was a simple and efficient one. Hit Sean Walters where he lived- kill his fucking dog. Henry said he understood Mark's hot-tempered desire to hit right back the fastest and most pleasurable way. He understood it- but sometimes discretion really was the better side of courage. Henry pointed out that the ultimate goal in these situations was to make a point. Bullies were sadists, and Henry said the only way to get one to stop was to hit back so hard, he'd never want to come near you again.

Beating him up already had been tried, and killing him outright would be difficult given that Mark would be a prime suspect. Even if Mark got off, being questioned about the murder of one of his biggest enemies at school would do a lot to shake his otherwise stellar reputation.

And, as Henry was careful to remind his cousin, not only Mark but both of them very much needed a good reputation. It was more than worth its weight in gold.

But the point definitely had to be made. This Sean Walters, Henry said, needed to get hit so hard he'd never, ever come Mark's way again. Having agreed on what was to be done, on that Friday night Mark and Henry had then turned to discussing how. Again, the matter was simple. Mark knew enough about the area he lived in- Phoenix Park was a nice, perfectly average suburb just outside of Phoenix itself, and Mark had lived there for years- to know where more than a couple of his classmates lived. He'd known where Sean's house was for some time, and now and then passed by- on foot or in his dad's Jeep- wishing he could do something with that knowledge. Now he had the chance. Mark had to admit, the thought was exciting. He'd never done anything like this before… but he was looking forward to it.

Mark stayed up well past his usual bedtime of 9:30pm; it was part of the plan, as Henry suggested he wait until at least 10. Excited like he hadn't been in years, Mark could feel adrenaline coursing through his system as he lay awake in his bed. He couldn't have gone to sleep if he wanted to.

Finally, at 9:40, Mark got out of bed and crept over to his closet. Sliding one of its doors open, he began sorting through the set of still-folded winter clothes Henry had gotten him. They were all name-brand sweaters, pants and jackets- more expensive than anything Mark had owned before. Mark had of course taken all of the warmer-weather clothes from the pile and arranged them neatly in his dresser; he definitely at least looked more like he was part of the 'in' crowd these days. But the cold weather clothes he had stored in the closet, rightly thinking he'd only need the lighter ones for quite a while to come. Henry, however, had suggested Mark take another look at the layered stack of winter clothes. There was something special in there, Henry said.

After they ended the phone call and hung up, Mark had spent perhaps ten minutes Friday night looking through the winter clothes in his closet. It took a little searching, a little patience, but Mark found what he was looking for. A black sweater, a thin black shirt, a pair of black sweat-pants, and a ski mask. Mark had smiled when he'd found them on Friday, and as he carefully took the clothes out of the closet tonight, he smiled again. It was just like Henry, to slip something like this in with a whole bunch of ordinary stuff. To make sure Mark would get something he would before long not only want, but need. When he'd come back from Maine, Mark had not quite understood his new views, his new lifestyle, enough to know he'd end up wanting to do murder at night. But Henry had. He'd sensed Mark had people who bothered him at home in Arizona, and that his patience with those morons wouldn't last much longer. Mark had already thanked Henry, who had of course been smug and pleased at the same time. But even so, Mark resolved to thank him again. He was coming to like Henry more and more these days. He didn't like the word "cousin", because that did not seem to any longer reflect the relationship the two boys had. "Brother" seemed far more appropriate.

Mark prepared to leave the house; he knew getting in and out would not be a great challenge. One side of his room had a window that faced the backyard; an extension to the dining room meant a section of roof jutted out just under his window, with a dogwood tree conveniently nearby after that. It would be a simple matter to slip out of his window onto the roof and close the window again, then creep across the roof and climb down the tree. The reverse would be no harder; Mark could hardly have wished for a better setup for an entry and exit.

The auburn-haired boy stripped bare and folded his ordinary jeans and dark green t-shirt with obsessive neatness, placing them under his bed and out of sight. Then he looked over the black boxer-briefs, black ski mask, thin black shirt and black sweats he'd laid out for the mission. Mark grinned in the dark of his room, lit only by the eerie light of the moon. This was gonna be awesome.

As Mark held up the black shirt and prepared to put it on, he glanced down to see the moonlight playing over his pale body. Briefly distracted, Mark looked over his arms, shoulders, chest and legs- he smiled, pleased. He looked pretty buff. He looked good. All that exercise- the weights had promptly been added starting Saturday night- was really starting to pay off. Briefly, Mark took out the switchblade his cousin gave him, striking a martial pose in his room. He flicked the blade open once, grinning at the six inches of moon-drenched steel.

It took only a minute or two for Mark to dress. By 10:15 he had left the house, slipped out the backyard and was down the neighborhood's road, keeping low and always to the shadows. Mark's neighborhood was set on a slight incline, with one road entering, circling the length of the neighborhood uphill, and coming back around as it went down the same incline again. Few cars traveled this road at night, and even Falconbridge was only a secondary road. There would be little traffic to hide from, and the moon was only half-full, with clouds obscuring it from time to time. There were plenty of shadows to hide in, many trees and bushes; this area had been mostly forest before developers had reached it, so many trees remained still.

Mark stayed off the road on his way up Falconbridge, instead staying under the cover of the trees but within sight of it. Now and again he would dart behind a tree and go prone, remaining absolutely still as the white headlights of a car passed by. Mark felt thrilled like he'd never been in his life, but he also felt very scared. He had committed no crime- not yet- but a thirteen-year-old boy out this late, especially in all-black clothes and a ski mask with a six-inch switchblade on him, was not going to be looked on without suspicion. If Mark got caught at all, it would be far better to have it happen while he was still on the way there; if he got caught after the act… he'd be done. There could be blood on the knife, his excitement at the completed act of revenge might show on his face- and the death of Sean's dog would soon be reported and very likely connected to Mark.

But Mark didn't get caught. Instead, while it took him close to an hour to get the mile or so up the road he needed to go, he'd made it. Hiding in a large bush- or maybe it was a stubby pine tree- Mark could see his target. That was the Walters house all right, and sure enough, in the dark the auburn-haired boy could spot the doghouse. The weather had been good lately, and winters in Arizona were nothing- absolutely nothing- like the unforgiving, vicious cold of Maine. The cocker spaniel was asleep outside, just where Mark needed it to be.

His heart pounding, Mark crept up to the edge of the Walters' backyard, finding the point on the fence where the moon touched the least. Confirming his concealment was best here- and that he was farther into the woods and not too close to the road- Mark slipped up to the wood fence and over it.

The boy with the auburn hair made no sound at all- none- as he crept low across the yard.

Briefly, he paused near the doghouse, cocking his head slightly as he gazed down at the sleeping dog inside. "TRIXIE", the upturned tag on the collar said. Mark smiled coldly under the mask; wasn't that a nice name.

The moment had come; Henry had been particularly adamant when he told Mark not to hesitate. "It's you or him, Mark," Henry said. "Just get it done."

Yeah, Mark thought, I got that. Come on, come on. I can do this.

Mark crouched down, reaching into his right pocket and drawing the blade. He pressed the chrome button on its obsidian-black handle, and six inches of Italian steel jumped into the night with a sharp snick. Looking down, Mark gripped the cocker spaniel under its muzzle, jerking its head up so he had a clean shot at its throat.

Understandably, the dog woke up, and briefly yelped in surprise. But only briefly- Mark's terror at being caught- and his fiery hate for Sean and lust for revenge- had reached a fever pitch. Mark placed the blade right where it looked like the throat should be- thankfully, it wasn't so different from people- and slashed.

The rush of blood that followed told Mark he'd done it right; the surprised dog's struggles and yelps soon halted, and were never especially loud anyway. Mark moved his hands back and dropped the dog quickly, but even so he feared there might be blood on his clothes- it was impossible to tell in the dark.

The dog was still.

Briefly, Mark debated adding a final touch to it. Henry said- and he agreed- that the point here was sending a message. But what about a coup de grace, a finishing touch to make sure the point was well and truly made? There were so many options. Mark could leave the dead dog on the Walters' back porch; he could stay here for a few extra minutes and see if the switchblade could cut off its head. But one thing Mark worried about was staying here too long. This was some dangerous shit he was doing. Exciting, even thrilling- but dangerous. It was probably best just to bug out now; the cocker spaniel was dead. Sean Walters would find it, and even he would surely sense it was done as an act of revenge. The best part, though, what really made Mark smile, was that although Sean would likely realise Mark Evans had done this, he'd have a hell of a time trying to prove it.

Mark's trip back went just as uneventfully as the first. Well, almost. He was riding on the most extreme adrenaline high he'd ever known in his life; Mark felt like he could see everything hiding in the shadows, hear every car coming long before it was in view. He felt like his senses were elevated well above normal levels, even if only for a short time. He was hyper-vigilant, though, and no doubt very nervous. Mark kept jumping and twitching at unusual sounds, and nearly screamed once when he snapped a twig as he crept behind a few trees.

Close to home, though, as he reached the edge of a clearing where the road crossed over a small creek, Mark realised something.

He had to pee.

No, piss- little kids had to pee. The big boys unzipped their flies and pissed. Whatever you called it, though, Mark needed to go and go bad. How hadn't he noticed this before? Why couldn't his bladder have rebelled while he was still in the house?

Cursing this development, Mark crouched low and darted for the creek, grateful for a large cloud obscuring the moonlight as he ran. Turning left, Mark ran along the edge of the creek and ran into the short, perhaps twenty-foot tunnel that let the creek run under the bridge.

Pulling the sweats down, Mark urinated into the creek, sighing gratefully and smiling. God, did that feel good. Never had Mark enjoyed a piss quite so much. It wasn't merely how bad he'd needed to go; it had just as much to do with tonight. Mark had killed tonight. He'd deliberately taken the life of another living thing, done it because he wanted to- because he could. And he didn't feel bad- not at all.

Mark urinated into the creek, wishing the surface of the water was instead Sean Walters' face. Finally, he tucked himself back in his pants. A brief, irrelevant thought occurred to Mark. He'd heard girls did things for boys- that you could get one to drop your pants for you and give you some "affection" down there. That sure sounded exciting. The only thing that could make this night better, Mark decided, was if he had a hot girl with him right now. Oh, well. This was more than good enough.

His business done- and his bladder very relieved- Mark left the creek and soon returned to his own neighborhood, avoiding only two cars along the remainder of the way. Before he knew it, he was climbing the dogwood tree, sliding open his bedroom window and slipping inside.

Mark pulled off the ski mask and collapsed to the carpeted floor, sweaty, tired, and grinning. He hadn't felt such satisfaction in a long while. He lay there for perhaps twenty minutes before his pulse slowed to anything like normal, then stripped and carefully hid his dark clothes in the closet again. This time, though, he hid them under a set of extra blankets- if those clothes did have blood on them, Mark did not at all want them getting it on any of his nice, name-brand winter clothes. After all, he might be going back to Maine soon.

Mark wanted to stay there.

Pausing again to admire himself in the moonlight, Mark soon slipped naked beneath the covers. He felt good about what he'd done tonight, and couldn't wait to tell Henry about it. There wasn't anything to feel bad about; he'd done what he had to do. And he had every right to enjoy it. Mark was asleep before long, the sweat on his body drying slowly as he slipped away into dreams.


	11. Chapter 11- The Dream

**Chapter XI- The Dream**

* * *

Mark didn't get a lot of sleep that night. It was difficult to explain why at first- after all, he was asleep not even two minutes after his head set down on the pillow. And he stayed asleep most all of the night, even, so that wasn't it either. What it seemed to be- what Mark guessed it was, once he got up Monday morning- was that the sleep Mark experienced had been much too intensified by that dream.

It came to Mark quickly, unexpectedly, and took on such form and force that it was hard to believe it wasn't real. That he hadn't somehow been taken from his bed, moved to this strange place, an open sunny field and a forest encrusted in snow and ice. It was unbelievable, impossible- but that was no reason to believe it hadn't happened, or that it hadn't in some way been real.

Mark opened his eyes to easily the most bizarre scene he'd ever witnessed. A warm breeze blew his way from the left, coming from a warm and sunny field- one Mark recognized from his travels in Arizona. The sun shone brightly, and the breeze was temperate and gentle. From the right, though, came a harsh, gusting wind of freezing air- and that Mark remembered too. Beside him, this time to the right, Mark could see a stretch of woods, blanketed in snow and encrusted in ice.

It was Maine in the deepest part of winter, and it was indeed a bleak and depressing scene. No warm and sunny fields there- indeed, hardly any sun to be spoken of at all. Whereas only handfuls of white cotton-puff clouds dotted the sky on the left, a thick, oppressive blanket of gray snow clouds covered the sky in every direction on the right, hiding the sun from view and blocking much of its light.

Mark noticed as he looked around that he stood on a path. A simple, dirt path, probably worn out of the ground more by the passing of many feet over the years than by any deliberate effort by the city council. Looking behind him, Mark could see a thick forest, neither frozen as the one scene ahead was, and not especially warm or inviting as the one on Mark's left was. The path wound backwards and far into the trees, leading Mark to wonder how he'd ever gotten out of there in the first place.

A gust of cold wind blew in from the right and struck Mark; instinctively, he clutched himself and shivered, but soon found it did no real good. With a shock, Mark realised he was no differently dressed in this dream than he had been some unknown time ago when he'd gone to bed. Mark was naked, and his increasingly-buff form did him little good here.

Looking down, Mark could see he stood at a fork in the path. One side of it headed left into the golden warmth of the field, white clouds dotting its picturesque blue sky. The other was carved out of several inches of snow, leading uphill past rocks and trees and into a harsh and cold land. There was no room for the weak or unfit in that hard, frozen place- only those who truly understood the dangers there and were equipped to meet them had a chance of survival.

Mark twisted and turned, wishing he could take refuge somewhere- or just as importantly, find some clothes. How had he gotten here? Why was he dressed- or undressed- just the same as he'd been when he'd gone to bed?

What was this place, anyway? And just as importantly, where was it?

Someone was calling him.

"Mark? Mark, can you hear me?"

His pulse quickened, and Mark jumped where he was, looking to his left. There- coming across the field towards him! It was his mother!

Mark looked around, trying to get a better look at her. He flushed suddenly and covered himself with both hands; he was naked, wherever this was, and now he was standing here in front of his mother!

But Janice Evans didn't seem to notice. She didn't seem to care. Far more important things than that mattered here. Mark had been lost in those woods behind him for some time, and he'd been coming to this point all along- whether he knew it or not. A choice had to be made. Janice, however she had come here, appeared to be gripped with a terrible sense of urgency. She appeared afraid for Mark, even sad.

"You've been lost, Mark," Janice said, looking distressed like he'd never seen her. "You have to find the way again."

"Mom!" Mark shouted, overjoyed. This was his mother! And she looked well! Not weak or wasting away from illness, but lively and strong. She was well again! Mark wanted to leap for joy. He wanted to run to her- he wanted to tell her he was glad he could see her again, wherever this was. He was glad his mother was here. Mark noticed he had one foot on both ways the path's fork took it. He instinctively began to turn away from that cold wasteland on the right- who would want to go that way anyhow, with nothing out there and his mother on the left?- when another voice called to him. This one was also immediately familiar, and came from the snowy, ice-encrusted Maine landscape to the right.

"Hey, Mark!"

Mark turned sharply. A boy dressed in gray wool pants, a black wool cap and a tan camel's hair coat was making his way downhill out of the snow; he reached the path after a few moments and stomped some of the snow from his boots. "Mark!" Henry called, his blue eyes locked on his cousin. Mark flushed; he didn't like looking like this in front of his cousin. But Henry's eyes never wavered from Mark's, and the fact that Mark was naked never seemed to cross the blonde boy's mind. Just like Mark, he ignored that completely. It didn't matter. Instead, he remained there on the path, there on that very gently sloping hill. Henry's eyes were fixed on Mark's, and something about his expression conveyed a sense of terrible urgency, of great intent. Henry was powerfully focused on something, and it seemed that something was Mark.

"Come on, Mark!" Henry called, motioning. "We need to go."

"Henry!" Mark called. "Henry, what's going on?"

Henry looked puzzled, uncertain- Mark was startled, for he'd never seen Henry like this. Henry, in fact, looked about as surprised and confused about being here as Mark was.

Mark wondered again if- somehow- all of this wasn't real.

"I-I don't know, Mark," Henry finally admitted. He motioned toward himself. "Come on, Mark. We can't stay here, we have to go."

Mark didn't understand that. What was Henry talking about? Why were Henry and Mark's mother so worried, so gripped with a sense of urgency? Mark, clearly, was at the center of it.

"What's happening?" Mark asked, feeling more confused than ever.

"You're lost, Mark," Janice Evans said again, looking worried and sad. She stood on the dirt path some fifty feet away now, dressed in the jeans, short-sleeved shirt and wide-brimmed straw hat Mark always remembered she liked to wear on sunny days, working in the garden.

"Why-why am I lost, Mom?" Mark called back.

Janice pointed at the foot Mark had in the wintry scene; he shivered as he looked, noticing the cold coming up from that frozen path. He wanted to lift his foot from that place, plant both in the warm field- it was human instinct. Yet he couldn't. Mark couldn't make himself move.

"He did this to you," Mark's mother said, and Mark right away sensed she was talking about Henry.

"Mom?" Mark said, confused and startled. "Henry's my friend!"

"No," Janice said, shaking her head with absolute certainty. "He's no friend, Mark. Not all sons are good like you, Mark. Some are bad. Henry's not your friend."

"Why?" Mark asked. "What did Henry do?"

"You were meant to follow a path, Mark. You're a good son. He's been leading you away from that path- Henry is lying to you."

Mark felt deeply troubled, and he felt a need to go to his mother. To ask her what was happening, what had happened- to help him make sense of his life, to be there for him and make things right again. Perhaps Mark did more than just want to take a step towards her. Maybe he did move, because Henry yelled at him then.

"Mark! Don't fucking _do_ this!"

The boy with the auburn hair froze where he was. There was real urgency- even fear- in Henry's voice. Mark turned, planting both feet back on the ground again. He still stood with one foot on the path to the sunny field, one in the path leading into the wintry, frozen hill. His decision hadn't been made yet, but Mark knew he'd have to make it soon.

Henry stood on the path in the snow-covered landscape, the wind whipping around him as he looked at his cousin. His eyes were wide and fearful, and he stood closer to Mark than before; clearly Henry had taken some steps toward his cousin, afraid of what might be happening. The blonde wasn't just worried; he looked distraught. Perhaps even literally panicked over what he feared was happening.

"Henry," Mark said quickly as he gestured at the field, "Come with me! It's warmer this way!"

But Henry just shook his head. "I can't go that way, Mark." He looked sad, regretful- but there was no arguing with that statement. He would not- could not- go and join Mark in that Arizona field.

"Why?" Mark asked, growing more puzzled all the time.

"Not in the cards," Henry said, clearly reluctant to talk about it. Suddenly, Henry took another step forward. "Mark," he said, his voice taking on a pleading tone. "Mark!" he cried as he stepped closer again. Now it was a cry for help.

"Mark," Janice Evans called, "You're a good boy. A good son. Don't listen to someone who isn't."

Confused beyond words, Mark hesitated and looked at his mother again, feeling an indescribable sense of sadness and longing. He wanted to go to her, see his mother one more time- yet Henry's pleading reached his ears again.

"Mark," Henry cried for a third time, and Mark turned to see Henry looking at him with tears in his eyes. "I can't go that way, Mark. Don't do this to me! I-I hate being out here. Don't make me stay out here alone!"

"He's leading you somewhere somewhere, Mark. Somewhere you don't want to go." The auburn-haired of the two boys glanced at his mother again. He heard her words, knew she meant them- but suddenly he stared in shock, any words he had been getting ready to speak vanishing in an instant.

Janice Evans was standing in a grassy field, and he could see the field behind her. He could see the field through her.

His mother was still dead.

"You're like my brother, Mark!" Henry cried, not even bothering to hide his desperation. "You _are_ my brother, and I'll never leave you- not for anything! I need you, damn it! I _need_ you!"

"You're different from who you were, Mark," Janice said. "You're not the boy we all knew. You know what's happening? He's doing it. He's changing you."

Mark now turned to his mother and asked her the same question he'd asked Henry moments ago. "Can't you come with me?" he asked, gesturing at the winter landscape where Henry stood. Janice Evans just shook her head, though. "No, Mark. Where your cousin is I can't be."

So it was impossible, then. Neither one of them could go where the other was. Mark's mother and cousin both seemed to be ignoring the other- perhaps they couldn't see the other, or simply had no words to spare. Their focus was completely on Mark- he was all that mattered to either person.

"Did you really _want_ to change, Mark?" his mother asked, and Mark stared at her in shock. What- what was she talking about?

"I'm stronger now, Mom," Mark said with a calm that surprised him. He didn't know what she meant about whether he'd wanted to change or not- that part didn't make any sense. But he did know that once the changes had started to happen, the effect they had was hardly a bad one in Mark's mind. He was faster, stronger, tougher and smarter today than he'd ever been before. Guys were starting to take him seriously at school, and girls were calling him 'cute'. He had so much he'd never had before- and he had gained a very good friend. All that Henry Evans had given him. And he had promised before- was promising now- to always be there. To never leave.

Janice Evans just looked at Mark sadly, like she sensed she was slowly beginning to lose the battle but still refused to give up. "Don't be someone you're not, Mark. Don't let him lie to you."

Mark didn't understand what his mother meant. He was himself today, as much as ever. And sure, he'd resisted the new way Henry had pointed out to him at first- any two boys with such differing backgrounds and viewpoints would have. But in time, Mark had come around to Henry's way of thinking. He liked who he was today, and was touched by Henry's generosity towards him. Still more touching now was Henry's appearance now. Glancing at him, Mark could see his cousin blinking away tears, his face tinged pink by the cold. Most would have said those tears were caused by the harsh wind stinging Henry's face. Certainly the wind was there, but Mark knew better about Henry's tears- his cousin was more than scared of losing Mark to that field in Arizona. He was terrified.

For a time all three fell silent, two of the people present letting the third- Mark- do some thinking himself. Both had said what they could- Mark was clearly taking some time to think, trying to make up his own mind.

Mark wanted to see his mother again. He still cared about her, even if she was gone. But Henry was here too- Mark didn't know where either place was, or how such a perfect, ruler-straight line could so cleanly divide these two opposite environments. All of this was impossible, every bit of it. Yet here they were, all three of them. Mark thought about Henry. Not anybody else, just Henry. The blonde was as cold as the winter scene around him- briefly, Mark wondered if the environment his mother and cousin stood in didn't symbolize something about them. Henry was a cold boy, mean and ruthless. Suddenly, Mark was very sure of that. But then he hesitated. How was that true? Henry had never been anything but warm and generous to Mark, seemed to be practically falling over himself at times to show his friend kindness.

And however much Mark missed his mother, however much he loved her, he could tell something about the path she stood by already. Janice Evans was gone, and that was a tragedy. But she _was_ gone, and that meant that if Mark chose to take her path, he would walk it alone. His mother would never be with him, except in Mark's dreams.

He couldn't do that.

Henry had come into Mark's life just as his mother left, the biggest loss and deepest sadness Mark had ever known. Henry had shown up like a gift from Heaven, a warm smile on his face and a hand held out in friendship. He'd kept his word about them being brothers, and had been there for Mark every day ever since they'd met. What more evidence did Mark need? What else could he ask for?

Henry said they could be brothers. The blonde was no liar; he'd kept his word to Mark every time so far. Mark had never seen Henry so emotional before; it moved Mark powerfully to see his cousin be so engaged in this contest of wills over him. This issue clearly meant the world to Henry. He needed Mark, and had just said so.

And Henry was alive. That, ultimately, was what set Mark towards making his decision. He looked down, working up the will he knew he'd need to put both feet into that frozen, wintry land. Maine in the winter was not for the uncertain or poorly committed- you had to have your mind made up about things if you wanted to have any chance at all.

Mark suddenly looked to his right; he could hear footsteps crunching on the frozen ground. Henry was walking towards him, his face written with concentration- as if it was taking him real effort to do this. His eyes kept flicking fearfully towards the sunny field to Mark's left as Henry approached. Henry could see it, then. Could see it, and was for some reason afraid of it- as if going that way would not only be difficult for him, but perhaps even harmful. It was literally impossible for him to even attempt it.

Henry was now within arm's length of his cousin. He did not cross the boundary, and still stood some five feet away- but Henry was very close now. He had calmed himself somewhat, perhaps having sensed things were not so bad as they'd at first seemed. Henry held out his right hand, and Mark saw Henry had forgotten his gloves. Or perhaps just left them behind.

"Come with me, Mark," Henry said, holding his hand out as close as he dared to reach. Mark could reach out and touch Henry now. But if he did… there was a good chance that would be making his decision.

"Come with me, Mark," Henry repeated, a little calmer this time. "I can take you with me."

Mark gazed off into the snowy Maine landscape. He and Henry had made their way through all that snow well enough when dressed in so many layers of winter clothing, but Mark had none of that. He'd surely freeze in an hour's time at most if there wasn't shelter near.

"It looks cold out there," Mark said, shivering again as he felt the icy chill.

"It is," Henry said without hesitation. There was no point lying, not to Mark- and certainly not about that. "But you won't be alone out there, Mark. I'll be with you." Henry smiled a little, and the warmth in that smile made Mark feel better somehow. Like things really weren't so bad after all- and perhaps the decision he needed to make had been made already. Perhaps there wasn't much to worry about. Maybe everything was gonna be all right.

Finally, Mark made his choice. There was no point in delaying any longer, and Mark knew in that one instant that he could only make the one choice, take just one of the two paths. Mark missed his mother, and always would. But Henry was alive. Henry was there and had been ever since they'd met. Mark had already lost his mother. He could not- would not- lose Henry.

Mark turned to his cousin, meeting the blonde's cool blue eyes and gripping his outstretched hand. He stepped over the border into the winter landscape, briefly turning back for one look at his mother- only to see the other two scenes, the forest that had been behind him and the sunny field both, were gone. They had vanished, and only the cold, snowy hill, rocks and trees remained.

The cold wind blasted at Mark, and he shivered as he stepped forward along the frozen dirt path, dark with soil that was saturated with cold, cold water. Mark let go of his cousin's hand and again placed both hands over his groin; he feared for what was down there most of all. If frostbite got him there, that would be worse even than losing an arm.

It was cold out here.

You could say that a thousand times and still not get it. The cold was so intense, so relentless, it numbed the mind. Standing there, Mark almost felt like lying down and just letting the cold take him. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Surely if he pressed on into this wasteland, shivering and freezing slowly all the way, he'd just die tired.

Somebody was putting a coat around his shoulders. The coat was very fine, lined with camel's hair and the fur of some other animal- something from a much colder climate. Mark gratefully took the coat, slipped it over his shoulders and put his arms into its sleeves. It fit him perfectly.

Mark turned to see who his benefactor was, and was surprised- yet somehow not surprised at all- to see it was Henry. The blonde was standing there in clothes almost identical to what he'd been wearing when Mark had last seen him. Those gray wool pants, which Henry bragged were imported from Germany. Mark had received a pair from Henry's dresser before leaving, he now remembered. He wore the same ruby red sweater, and Mark was briefly surprised to see Henry's black cap was gone- but then saw Henry reach forward, gently pulling it down over Mark's own head.

Mark's feet still could feel the bitter cold of the ground, but his head and upper body were much warmer. He buttoned the coat closed, and felt much warmer now. But Henry had to be freezing- that sweater, even when accompanied by good German wool pants, could not be meant for weather like this.

"I'm f-fine," Henry grinned with some effort, seeing the look of concern on Mark's face. "I'll be okay. Come on." He started walking forward along the path, into the bleak landscape that lay before them. "We've g-got a long way to go."

"Where are we going?" Mark asked, walking with Henry as the blonde put an arm around his shoulders.

"I'm not really sure," Henry said, looking uncertain again for a moment.

"Well," Mark said slowly, "How do we know when we get there?"

Henry didn't even flinch as the icy wind hit him again. It chilled him to the core, but Henry didn't care. He felt so much better now. So much better. It was more than words could ever say.

"We'll know," Henry said, and somehow he was sure of that. And somehow, so was Mark.

"You'll stay with me, right?" Mark said, suddenly desperate for that reassurance. He'd chosen to take this path, to make the insane choice of walking into this bleak and frozen land. With Henry he might have a chance. Without him there was no chance at all. Henry spoke just one word in reply, and right away Mark knew he was telling the truth.

"Always."

Mark remembered very little of what happened in the dream the following morning. He overslept, and barely got up in time for school. He was tired and irritable throughout the day- only with Jake and some of the other big-shots on the school teams was he even halfway friendly. When Alan Parks- having heard about Mark's beating at the hands of Sean Walters and those morons Eric and Chad- tried to come over and apologize for being so distant, Mark told him not to bother. "I think I'll be fine," Mark said shortly, and after a few minutes Alan gave up and left, wondering how he'd managed to say the wrong thing, and feeling that he was losing- or maybe had already lost- a very good friend.

The auburn-haired boy didn't care. As a matter of fact, he was disgusted. A pitiful, weak and skinny boy like Alan Parks, coming up to him- him! - and saying he felt sorry for him? Sympathy from a worm like that, somebody so far beneath Mark he deserved not even to be under the treads of his shoe, was worse than getting beaten up again. Mark wanted no pity from somebody like that. He nursed his bruises and sores throughout the day, barely even noticing when somebody told him Sean Walters was skipping school again today. Supposedly, he was overwhelmed with grief. Somebody had killed his dog.

Sitting with Jake Schwarz and some of his buddies from the basketball, soccer, and football teams, Mark just shrugged and asked the soccer team boys present if they wanted to hang back and have a smoke after practice today. His indifference was obvious, and the other guys let it go at that. It surprised some of them, though, at how easily Mark turned his back on the issue. So a bully's dog was gone. So what? Jake, for one, was impressed- this hard-charging, Camel-smoking, I-don't-give-a-damn Mark Evans was almost too cool to be real. He exchanged all the same banter with the guys as Jake did, and clearly liked being given a chance to sit with Jake and his buddies for a day.

The whole thing was really just a test of sorts- Jake had been trying to convince his friends he wasn't crazy by hanging out with Mark Evans after that game Friday. Jake had told his buddies Mark was changed, that he wasn't such a goody-two-shoes dweeb anymore. Hell, he was kind of a badass. Even the athletes at school didn't beat up dudes bigger than them every day. Or lose to three guys in a fight and just shrug it off like it was nothing. So half skeptical, half intrigued, Jake's table and team-mates had allowed it. Fine, they said, let the dork sit with us. We'll see how cool he is. They were fairly impressed so far, and more than a little surprised. This could _not_ be Mark Evans. The one they knew by that name was a dork. _This_ guy was kind of cool.

Two thousand miles away in a suburb called Rockbridge, just outside of the city of Portland, Maine, Henry Evans woke up with a terrible headache Monday morning. How and why was a mystery to everyone, especially Henry. But he found he could get out of bed easily that morning, and before long had a little spring in his step. Henry even found himself whistling Sousa's "Semper Fidelis March" as he came downstairs for breakfast, not even caring that it if anything made his painful headache worse. Henry somehow felt like that was just fine, like it didn't matter- something much more important had been accomplished. Somehow, Henry was sure of it.

_I was there when Mark needed me_, Henry thought once on Monday the 13th, and found the thought brought him great calm, a sense of real satisfaction. He was tired and drained throughout the day, though, and could remember nothing from the previous night. He had the oddest feeling he'd seen Mark- or had spoken to him somehow. None of it made sense- but Henry knew these thoughts were occurring to him for a reason. Henry went to bed early that night, worn out like he hadn't been in years.

The thought, the feeling, that he'd somehow been there at a moment when Mark had needed him occurred to Henry once again on Monday, as he was getting ready to go to sleep. Right after that thought came another, this one a question. _Will I be there the next time he needs me_?

And right on the heels of that:

_Always_.


	12. Chapter 12- Moving Along

**Chapter XII- Moving Along**

* * *

By Tuesday, Mark Evans had gained enough standing with Jake Schwarz and his buddies to sit with them again if he liked. And of course, Mark did- these guys were a whole world away from the dorks he'd sat with before. They were cool, they were confident- and like Mark, they looked at the rules as something that was there to be broken. Jake Schwarz and his guys believed the laws of the adult world to be subject to their teenage whims and interests, rather than the other way around.

It was nice to see some boys at this stupid school- a few, at least- would perhaps have been worthy of meeting Henry. Mark tagged along with Jake to the classes they shared now- "tagged along" might not have been the best word, though. He was making sure that Jake and his buddies knew that while Mark liked them and wanted to hang out with them more, he didn't need them. Being like that- needy and desperate- only made you more of a loser in the eyes of the people who already saw you that way. But the alternative? That could work very well. Napoleon himself had once said, "France has more need of I than I of France," and yet that had only made France adore him more.

Word was getting around that Mark Evans was one of the cool guys now. Not everyone was convinced- not yet- but at lunch on Tuesday, something happened to clear up a lot of doubts. John Hendricks, a lanky but tough and good-looking kid on the football team, came by the table- he usually sat with another table of athletes and some preppy kids- and objected to Mark's being there. Mark stood up and told John to get fucked; the football player stared for a moment, dumbstruck. Then his eyes narrowed in anger and a fight looked like it was going to happen; only Jake standing up and speaking to the both of them stopped it. "Guys, guys!" Jake said, keeping his eyes on both of them. "Come on. What class do we have next period?"

"PE," John Hendricks said, still angry but now also confused. "Why?"

"Can't we just play dodgeball? Pummel the losers together?"

Mark abruptly burst out laughing. "You fuckin' asshole, Jake," he said, sitting back down and forgetting about John Hendricks entirely.

John stared again, looking down at the chuckling Mark. He looked around at the other guys at the table- his friends, who for some reason had accepted this runt, who was not so worthy of the term anymore- into their midst. "Since when did the Evans kid grow some balls?" John said, startled at Mark's casual use of bad language. It wasn't something John had expected to hear out of him.

"Oh, I turned thirteen, John. Hit puberty. You know how it is."

"Yeah, man," John said, giving up and sitting down. "Whatever, dude."

Jake got a gleam in his eye as he looked at Mark again. Picking up a chicken nugget, he asked, "Mark- whaddya say we play _my_ kind of dodgeball?"

Jake Schwarz's version of dodgeball- because that was the game they were playing in PE today- turned out to really just be the same as normal dodgeball, but with a special focus on hitting other kids' heads. You just aimed for the head, throwing as hard and as fast as you could. The more you disoriented your victims, the better, and bonus points if you made them fall over.

PE class had easily been Mark's least favourite class in the last year-and-a-half of junior high school. Right away in sixth grade, Mark learned that Physical Education certainly lived up to its name, but not the way it was supposed to. Only on the rarest of occasions did many boys or girls learn much that was useful in the gym- most often it was a time of day the ordinary boys in particular learned to equate with embarrassment. The athletes just showed off, always picking each other for a team anytime a sport was played and easily beating everyone else in the class.

Easily one of the most degrading things in PE was the social aspects of it. The people who were cool in the hallways and classrooms were still cool in their gym uniforms, and the ones who weren't still weren't. Perhaps the most dreaded moment for the weaker boys was when the sport or game of the day was announced, and the coach picked team leaders who then picked everyone else. It was perhaps even worse than embarrassing yourself trying to play the chosen sport, because all the not-so-popular kids could do was sit there and wait until one team or the other grudgingly picked them because all the cool and talented kids had been chosen.

For most of his time in junior high, that was what PE class had been like for Mark. He'd managed to avoid most of the worst of the razzing and mockery, in no small part due to his budding athletic talent. He only really took interest in soccer, though, which some of the more "macho" American boys mocked as a sissy European sport. These days, though, Mark played soccer the hard way and was tossing the basketball and football around in PE class with some increased interest.

The result of this was that PE class was steadily becoming one of his more favourite classes during the day. It was a great time to relax, shoot the shit with the guys, brag about who could lift more weights and show off for the girls in class. The rather homoerotic nature of the locker room time before and after class no longer bothered Mark; instead, he found it kind of fun, chatting with the other athletes and making fun of the skinny boys who tried to slink by unnoticed.

Mark was also becoming quite the authority in his class when it came to cigarettes. Most of the boys were just experimenting, trying it out or hoping to impress their buddies by breaking the rules. Mark regarded those boys with calm contempt, only really sharing his cigarettes with the guys who were doing it because they liked it. Mark was good at chatting up the older high school kids and college guys in his neighborhood; his ability to come up with cigarettes whenever he wanted them awed some of the boys at school and impressed plenty of others.

So it was hardly surprising that on Tuesday, Mark was chosen to be a part of the "jock team" in class. The athletes naturally grouped into one team, effortlessly winning whatever game was being played that day and reminding everyone else why the school was theirs. Athletics were glorified in America, from the Superbowl on down- small surprise, then, that countless junior high and high schools worshipped their athletes, no matter how mean and insensitive they could be.

Once he was standing over by Jake's group, the taller 8th grade boy gave Mark a glance. "What about him?" he said quietly, pointing at Alan Parks.

"No," Mark said. "We don't need losers like that."

Jake laughed a little, surprised at the flat, cold voice Mark spoke those words in. "All right," he said, and passed over Alan Parks again and again, easily replacing him with another member of the soccer team.

Coach O'Malley blew his whistle, and the first two teams faced each other on the gym floor. Jake quickly began directing his jocks' fire, and Mark quickly picked up on the special type of dodgeball they were playing today. Jake nearly always went and visited Coach O'Malley early in the day, the better to know how he was going to remind the ordinary boys how much better Jake was than them. Mark was soon laughing his ass off, slapping palms with Jake or John each time one of the other team's guys was hit.

"Headshot!" Mark shouted joyously as he watched this one kid's glasses fly off when the foam ball hit him in the side of the head. He noticed the look of disgust Alan Parks gave him, but didn't even care. So what if Alan Parks didn't like what he was doing? Mark was one of "the boys" now, or at least well on his way towards that.

"Yo, Mark!" John Hendricks called. "Get down, man!"

Mark turned to look where John's eyes were aimed, barely managing to sidestep the ball Alan hurled at him. The shot was thrown in anger, but plenty well-aimed; Mark's surprise as the ball whizzed past him lasted only a moment. Picking up another ball that had landed nearby, Mark tossed it up and slammed his palm into it, sending the ball rocketing towards Alan Park's face. It hit him hard and he sat down with a grunt. Mark made extra sure that Alan, when he sat up, saw the sneer on the auburn-haired boy's face. Jake saw the whole thing and burst out laughing, high-fiving Mark and carrying on the game until O'Malley called the next two teams in. Sitting off to the side in the bleachers, Mark noticed Coach O'Malley overseeing the game. A beefy, heavyset man, Coach Thomas O'Malley had played football for Florida State and to this day retained an old-fashioned belief about pain and suffering, and the role a little humiliation played in the making of men out of boys. He oversaw the second two teams of boys with his arms crossed and a stern look on his face just the same as before, taking no action as the young teens enthusiastically pummeled each other.

"Does he always do that?" Mark asked Jake, looking at Coach O'Malley. It amazed him, now that he was thinking about it, that the coach hadn't noticed Mark's take-down of Alan Parks when he was clearly observing the games with such interest.

"Yeah, man," Mike Hayworth said, chiming in before Jake could respond. "O'Malley thinks we're making men out of those dorks."

"Fat chance," John laughed.

"Yeah," Mark chuckled. "Take a lot more than that to make a jock out of a nerd."

"Man," Jake snickered, "When _did_ you get some nuts, Mark?"

Mark, gazing off towards the girls in the class, sitting at the other end of the bleachers, was looking at Megan Baker's cheerleader legs. _Thank God for gym shorts_.

"Dude," Mark said distantly, "I have _such_ a boner right now."

"Wow," Mike said. "No _way_ did we need to hear about that."

"Nice," Jake laughed. Catching sight of who Mark was looking at, he said, "Aiming high, huh, dude?"

"Fuck yeah," Mark said, matter-of-factly.

"Impressed yet, John?" Jake said, looking up at John Hendricks with a smirk.

"Yeah," John admitted. "A bit." Actually, he was very impressed. Mark Evans had truly done an about-face since last year. Before long he was gonna be shoving nerds into lockers. It was a funny thing to imagine.

After practice, Mark and Jake again hung back after the others and smoked a cigarette in the soccer field locker room. Nobody else was out here, so there was nothing to worry about. All through practice Alan Parks had ignored Mark, while the auburn-haired boy had if anything relished the chance of a confrontation or fight. Word was getting out that the two were most surely not friends anymore. Word was also going around that Sean Walters was again missing from school because of his dog; Alan Parks and Mark Evans were being talked about, as the school grapevine was wondering if one of them hadn't done it. Mark, though- he was one of the cool boys. For many kids that ruled him out, then and there. But Alan Parks- he was quiet, reserved- no one seemed to know what he did with his anger. And after getting picked on by Sean Walters for all this time, he had plenty of reason to be angry. Nobody was saying anything, not yet… but there were always rumors.

On Monday evening, Mark had spoken briefly with Henry. The call had been short, as both boys were quite worn out. But Mark had told Henry what he'd done Sunday night, and as tired as he was, Henry had grinned and told Mark "Congratulations". Mark could almost see the smile on his cousin's face.

"How did it feel?" Henry had asked, genuinely curious. "Do you feel bad about it?"

"No," Mark had replied. "No. I… it felt _good_. And I'm not sorry. Not at _all_!"

"Great, Mark," Henry had said in a quiet voice. "You're a man now, like me." The blonde paused. "Well, except I'm all handsome and educated. Smart. You're kind of a faggot."

"Bite me."

"I know you want to."

Turning serious, though, Henry had warned Mark to be careful. The cops would definitely be called on this one, and Mark would surely be named as a suspect. All Mark needed to do- just as long as no one had seen him do it- would be act like any other kid. Just act dumb, act like he had no idea what was going on. It was very important that Mark be that wide-eyed, ordinary kid who'd never done a thing wrong in his life when the cops came to call. If he laughed, for example, when the officer told him that someone had killed Sean Walters' dog, that might prompt him to ask more than just a few questions. Unwilling to give up his beautiful tools, Mark had washed his own laundry and hidden the black clothes away again and tucked away the cleaned-up switchblade. If he gave the police reason to search his room, they might find the black clothes and the blade- and that would be very bad.

Sure enough, an officer from Phoenix Park's police department came to visit just after dinner Tuesday night. Jack was surprised when he saw the black-and-white Caprice pull up to a stop outside his driveway; he could count on his fingers the number of times the police had spoken with him in the past ten years.

But the officer didn't just want to talk to Jack. He also wanted to talk to Mark.

Standing out on the front porch with the officer and his dad, Mark was the picture of childish innocence, hesitant to speak with the policeman and reluctant to say much at all. He had a dazed, wide-eyed look about him, clearly afraid he'd done something wrong. This was much more like the Mark that Jack remembered- the good kid who'd never done a thing wrong in his life.

The officer asked the questions he felt he needed to. School officials had stated that Sean Walters was a bully of sorts, though they were reluctant to come out and say it. He was the kind of kid who might make enemies- perhaps even the kind who'd do something like this. "We weren't enemies," Mark said carefully, reluctant to meet the officer's eyes. "I just hoped he'd leave me alone."

Jack was asked if Mark had any weapons to speak of- anything that he even could have simply lost, inadvertently providing the real killer with a weapon. Shaking his head, Jack said Mark had never owned a weapon in his life- least of all a blade deadly enough to kill someone's pet. He shook his head again at the idea, disgusted and dismayed- who was sick enough to do something like this? Least of all a kid! Bullies were one thing, but no pet deserved to have the squabbles of people taken out on it.

The officer also asked about Mark's whereabouts at the time- late Sunday night- of the event. Answering for his son, Jack said Mark had never left the house. The officer gauged both the actions and reactions of the boy and his father throughout the conversation. They were pretty much always in agreement, but not in any particularly organized kind of way. Their stories just coincided, that was all. And the kid looked startled, scared- that was normal. People, especially kids, had a tendency to feel like they'd done something wrong when the police paid a visit. In fact, that was the sort of thing Patrick Johnson and his comrades in the Phoenix Park Police Department expected. It was when people didn't instinctively become nervous that an officer became nervous. And while a million holes could have been poked in either the father or the son's stories, the true ones tended to look that way. It was the alibis that looked like suits of armour that Johnson worried about. And lastly, simply put, the father looked like he was telling the truth, and he had no reason to lie.

Finally, Johnson had asked all he'd come to ask about, and didn't think much of the odds that the station would send him to this address again on this one. He did ask one more question, though. "Enemies. Has this kid Walters got any? Anybody you can think of, might have a grudge against him?"

Jack couldn't think of anybody, not at first. But then Mark spoke up, in a small voice- one that said he could hardly believe he was really saying this. "Alan Parks," Mark said, appearing not to notice his father's look of astonishment. Mark just shrugged a little. "Sean… he used to pick on the both of us a lot. I don't think Alan did this but… you might wanna go talk to him."

Officer Johnson left soon after that, not confirming or denying that the Parks household would also be spoken to- but making a note to that effect one a pad he carried with him. It would do to at least pay the same visit he'd made to the Evans household, given how sure the Walters family had been that Mark Evans had something to do with it.

Both father and son breathed a collective sigh of relief as Officer Johnson's Chevrolet pulled away from the curb. For a moment, neither of them said or did anything. Jack opened the front door, though, and Mark followed him inside. "I'm gonna go upstairs and work out," Mark said with remarkable calm given what had just happened. "Might call Henry later."

Calling Henry and working out. That was about all Mark seemed to do around the house anymore. Jack felt weary thinking about it sometimes. Mark was a growing boy, getting stronger and more confident every day. His grades were the best they'd ever been, and he was fast recovering from that fight he'd lost last Friday- which he was still unwilling to talk about, or even say who did it. It was like Mark had said- he wanted to solve these things on his own.

As Mark turned to head upstairs, though, Jack happened to see him looking back out the glass portion of the front door, watching the red taillights of the black-and-white Caprice vanish into the approaching darkness. For just a moment Mark grinned, and in the odd lighting reaching the stairs from the door he looked very much unlike the scared kid Jack had seen when talking to the police officer. Jack considered saying something, but didn't. He'd been turning away to go back to reading the newspaper, and didn't think Mark had seen him. He soon put the event out of his mind, figuring Mark was just reassuring himself that everything was all right, that he wasn't a suspect- and perhaps looking forward to working out in his room and calling his cousin. But briefly, Jack wondered if his natural instinct to protect his son hadn't somehow been misguided. If by covering Mark, he hadn't somehow done the wrong thing.

Sean Walters never returned to his old junior high school. Mark nearly sprayed milk all over the lunch table when he heard that the former bully had been abruptly transferred to a junior high school across town. Word was he'd left a broken boy- defeated now in spirit as well as in form. Nobody could confirm much of anything, and even to Jake and his new- and much more popular- friends, Mark refused to confirm or deny anything at all. But talk gets around, and the word went out to all the kids at Calvin Harris Junior High to ease up on Mark Evans. He wasn't a kid to be crossed.


	13. Chapter 13- The Coming of Easter

**Chapter XIII- The Coming of Easter**

* * *

The days left in February passed by quickly. Cheered by Sean's departure from Calvin Harris Junior High School, Mark started hanging around with the new friends he was making on a regular basis. Jake Schwarz was one of those good-looking, popular boys who seemed to know everybody at school worth knowing. The rich kids, the outgoing and athletically talented- he knew them all. Mark liked his new friends much better than his old ones. These were the school's premier students, the best of the best. They could get away with a lot, and the hours of the school day were something they enjoyed, looked forward to- Mark hadn't liked school this much since he'd been in the 5th grade.

A week after Sean Walters walked out of Calvin Harris JHS, Mark was invited to tag along with the football team- which Jake Schwarz also played on- and hang around with the guys while they all lifted some weights after school. The soccer team didn't have practice, and Mark wanted to keep up his new manner of always being "one of the guys". He was Jake's resident authority on cigarettes now- both on which ones were best, and who to talk to about getting them. Many of the boys just played it safe and paid Mark to take care of it for them- a process he was glad to do for friends and teammates, but would just laugh off if anyone else asked him. Mark's old friends now found him acting like he didn't know them, and perhaps even as if he never had. It was puzzling beyond words, yet it was happening. Neither Alan Parks nor any of the others understood it.

The days and weeks passed, February giving way to March. Henry and Mark, gleeful beyond expression at Mark's successful first kill- the culprit had still not been caught, apparently- were soon counting down the days until March 29, 1994- the day before Easter, when Mark and his father would arrive in Portland on a flight from Phoenix. They'd only be staying for that weekend, but it didn't matter. The boys were just thrilled to know that soon, they'd be seeing each other again.

On March 1st, Mark was coming back to the locker room with John Hendricks just as Alan Parks was leaving. The two boys entering the room had stayed in the gym a little after class had officially ended, throwing a few hoops and bullshitting about how much of "it" they were getting and which girls they liked. Both were lying, and kind of had fun knowing that they both knew it. But soon- soon, they wouldn't be. They were popular boys, and it was easy to get most anything they wanted. Mark and John both looked forward to that.

Mark and John wandered back into the locker room chatting amicably, a basketball under each boy's arm. At Mark's suggestion, they decided to take a few extra minutes and head for the showers. Why not, Mark said, when Mr. Jost never notices if we're there half the time anyway? John agreed, and the two boys stripped off the sweat-darkened shirts of their dark green gym uniforms, each making joking complements about the new "guns" the other was sporting. They were so busy talking to each other, neither one noticed Alan Parks until he literally walked into them.

"Woah!" John said, backing up in surprise. "Watch it, man!"

"You watch it," Alan muttered, trying to make his way past.

"Uh-oh!" Mark said, a mocking smile on his face. "What was that?"

Alan just glared at him. "What the fuck happened to you, man? You're turning into the same fuckin' jerk Sean was."

John gaped in surprise for just a moment; handsome but far from the sharpest tool in the shed, he tended to assume anyone less popular than him knew not to speak disrespectfully in his presence, to him or to his friends. Apparently this ginger kid didn't.

Mark, on the other hand, just glared. Apparently he didn't like hearing this. Handing his gym shirt and basketball to John, Mark promptly grabbed Alan Parks by the scruff of his polo shirt and the handle on top of his backpack. Without a word he threw Alan a few feet back into the room; he rebounded off some lockers and hit the floor with a grunt, shrugging off his backpack and getting to his feet. His jeans had some dust from the floor scuffed on them; Mark wanted to see better than that by the time he was done. He moved forward, and Alan raised his fists.

"Thanks for sending the cops to my place," Alan snarled as he shoved Mark in the chest. "I appreciate it."

"Anytime," Mark laughed, then shoved one hand against Alan and knocked him back into the lockers again. "Now gimme your fuckin' lunch money."

"Uh, Mark?" John said hesitantly. "Are you sure this is a good time? I mean, what if Coach O'Malley hears-"

"O'Malley ain't gonna hear _shit_," Mark said without even looking away from his red-haired former friend. "Even if he's still in his office, he'll figure we're building this dork some character in here."

John looked like he wanted to argue, but Mark was pissed- the surprisingly fit build he had now was obvious, every growing muscle on his upper body standing out in sharp relief. He was tense and angry, ready to take and throw back anything and everything Alan Parks threw at him.

"It's after lunch, jerkoff," Alan replied insolently, and Mark just slammed him against the lockers again.

"I want tomorrow's in advance, then," Mark said. "Let's go, you _girl_. Come on!"

Alan shoved Mark hard, trying to push him away and get some time to escape. John moved back towards the way he'd come in, though, and the other exit was at the far end of the locker room. Alan snarled angrily and lowered his head, head-butting Mark and knocking him backwards. The two crashed to the tiled floor and began to fight.

Contrary to what most might have thought, Alan Parks was not an especially weak boy. He was not really a jock, not by the standards of guys like Jake Schwarz or John Hendricks, but he wasn't in bad shape, either. He managed to give Mark a few good ones to the stomach and chest, even knocking his head against the hard tiled floor once. But then Mark landed a punch so hard Alan's head snapped back. As it struck the floor he saw stars. Mark kicked Alan off him an instant later, and soon Alan was the one pinned on the floor. For the next minute or two after that, Alan struggled furiously while Mark steadily beat the hell out of him. Eventually, handed a good black eye, some bruises on his ribs worse than Sean had ever done, and a split lip, Alan gave up.

"All right," he gasped, just as Mark socked him in the stomach again and his lunch began to really start fighting its way back up. "All right!"

"Where's my fucking lunch money, _loser_?" Mark snarled, grinning savagely. He knew he'd won, all right.

"In my backpack," Alan said with real effort. It hurt to talk. "In the little pouch, up top."

Mark got up and grabbed Alan's backpack, unzipping the specified pouch. He carelessly tossed aside an assortment of pens and pencils until he found what he wanted, and turned to Alan, holding it up. "This?" he growled, thoroughly disappointed. "Five _fuckin'_ dollars is all you got, Alan?"

The auburn-haired boy cringed as Mark Evans moved towards him, an angry, ugly look on his face and real contempt in his eyes. He had one fist balled up, ready to pound Alan again. The red-haired boy cringed, unashamed- he could no longer pretend he was anything but afraid. He wished Mark Evans would go away. All he wanted was for this to end. Cowering before his former friend, Alan said, "No, it's really all I have! It is, I swear!"

After a moment Mark let his fist down, and Alan relaxed a little. Maybe this would be over soon. It wasn't entirely, though, because when Mark stood up he kicked Alan hard in the stomach, causing him to barf out all the air in him just like Sean had. Alan lay on the locker room floor, curled up and gasping for oxygen like a fish. Meanwhile, Mark Evans stood up, went to his locker and stripped as John Hendricks had already done. Taking a towel with him, he wandered off to the showers, laughing with John about how he was gonna buy a slice of pizza for Megan Baker tomorrow, speculating what that might get him on Friday night. John said dream on, but Mark just laughed right back. And so on.

After a few moments of listening to the two jerks talking in the shower room, Alan snatched up his backpack and bolted out of the locker room, out of the gym and off to class. He refused to say a word about why he was late, and accepted his teacher's criticism without a word. Anything was better than pissing off Mark Evans. He had learned that much already, along with the sincerest wish he'd ever made- that he and that awful, mean and horrible boy with the auburn hair had never met.

On March 10th, Mark kissed Megan Baker at John Hendricks' birthday party. She said she'd always thought he was cute, and running a slender hand down the growing muscles on one of his arms, she asked very sensually how many of her he could press on the bench. Mark, winking, said just as many as you like.

Things continued going well for Mark at school, and he was in excellent spirits as he and Henry both anticipated Mark's coming visit towards the end of the month. Mark bragged of his recent romantic accomplishment, proudly informing his cousin of his having reached "first base". Henry was green with envy. He didn't even bother making anything up to counter Mark's accomplishment; for some reason, Henry didn't enjoy the idea of lying to Mark like he did with everyone else. Instead, Henry just vowed he'd one-up his cousin soon, to which Mark laughingly replied he wasn't so sure.

Jake Schwarz soon was publicly treating Mark Evans as one of his best friends. All of Jake's friends- male and female- knew him now, and Megan Baker was seen regularly flirting with Mark in the hallway as March progressed. More than one girl was envious of the attention she was getting- word was Mark hadn't been past a kiss yet, but with the looks those two were giving each other something more couldn't be long in coming. Megan Baker was an attractive girl, one truly blessed by the figure she was gaining with the onset of the teenage years. She was actually an 8th grader, just like Jake- but he'd already lost interest in her, and Mark was just too cute to pass up. Megan, talking with her friends one afternoon at her house, laughed as they talked about how Mark might take it if she asked him to unbuckle his pants sometime. Boys were always so excitable and jumpy the first time around, with anything. Especially if it involved "alone time" with girls. It was probably going to be fun to see.

On March 20th, though, a Friday exactly nine days from the big day, disaster struck. The day had gone well- Mark had gotten in trouble for making out with Megan Baker next to his locker that morning, and had made plans to see her at the movies this weekend. The movie theater was dark, Megan pointed out with a coy smile. Maybe if the movie wasn't so good, Mark could get her a hot dog. Mark had flushed beet red when she'd said that, an act Megan and a couple of her friends nearby thought terribly funny. It made Mark excited beyond words, though. You had to interpret these things correctly, but Jake assured Mark he knew what Megan meant. Mark eagerly asked for details, but Jake just smirked. "Just take her to that movie Saturday. You'll find out what she means soon enough."

Arriving at home close to four- Mark had stayed after to lift weights and smoke a bit with Jake and the guys- Mark was in the best mood he'd been in for months. Everything was going just like he wanted, and Mark really had no complaints. He'd even killed a squirrel recently- cut off its head after stunning it, knocking it down from a tree with an expertly-thrown rock. Both parts of the squirrel had been disposed of in a nearby creek, and the switchblade Mark still did not own was cleaned thoroughly and hidden away in his room again.

Up in his room just after dinner, where Mark had maintained a courteously bored conversation with his dad, Mark eagerly returned to his weight-lifting. What he did at home now was really just recreational; he liked getting the heart-rate up and watching his strengthening upper body take form. Maybe it was a bit homo-erotic, comparing muscles and bragging in the weight room with the guys- but the hell with it. Mark didn't care. This was a key part of getting girls, being the big dog in high school. You had to be in shape, plain and simple.

Mark had been trying his best to keep things civil with his father lately. All he really concerned himself with these days, as far as his dad went, was just keeping him in the dark about things and maintaining the usual appearance of normalcy. Henry was the expert on that- as far as Mark could tell, he'd been doing it all his life. But even after just a few months' practice at realizing it was okay to lie, cheat and steal, Mark had to admit he was getting fairly good at it. The big thing was to stop thinking about it as if you were doing something wrong. If you put yourself in a frame of mind where you believed the lies you told as you told them, remembered that everyone was a damn cheat these days, and told yourself you had every right to take what you wanted from those who couldn't keep it… well, as long as you did all that, you'd be fine.

So Mark was more than a little surprised when his father's footsteps, echoing down the hallway, didn't head left from the top of the stairs and disappear into the carpet of the master bedroom. Instead, Mark heard them continue down the hall towards his room. So what? Mark thought after a moment of confusion, and went on lifting the dumbbell in his one arm. He liked working shirtless in his room like this, one arm at a time- it wasn't so much about the actual exercise as it was about just looking at those damn beautiful muscles he was acquiring. Mark liked studying the shape of his arm as the biceps grew when he lifted the weight up, then relax again as he lowered it down. These arms had beaten Sean Walters, killed Sean's dog, and beaten Alan Parks just for the hell of it. Mark was a new boy now. He wasn't weak anymore. He was strong.

Jack Evans came into the room, dressed in his usual jeans and plaid t-shirt. That was how he was dressed after work, of course- Jack seemed to have a secret wish to be a lumberjack instead of a computer and electronics expert. That was none of Mark's concern, though. He just went on lifting his weights, increasing his upper body strength one arm at a time.

"Hey, Mark," Jack said with a slight smile, obviously a little uneasy.

"Hey, Dad," Mark said, puffing a bit as he curled his arm slowly at the elbow, going from hanging straight down to fully curled against his bicep.

Jack Evans had to pause for just a moment to take all this in; his thirteen-year-old son was standing there in a pair of black exercise shorts, and he looked very buff for his age. His chest, stomach, arm and shoulder muscles all stood out in remarkable relief- Mark's new friends were definitely a physically-talented bunch.

And it wasn't just Mark's upper body that was different, formidable as it was coming to be. Looking around the room for a moment, Jack felt a jarring sense of distortion. Like things should have made sense, seemed to- yet didn't. Not at all. Mark's karate gi and green belt were folded neatly on the cushioned wooden chair at his desk. The polished, hand-carved model of the HMS Vanguard was sitting prominently atop his dresser, its many missile silos standing ready to open their caps to the sky and in minutes fire warheads that would cause the death of millions.

The walls were different, too. Now instead of soccer teams Mark liked or sports cars he favoured, there were posters of a Marine in dress blues, a B-2 Spirit bomber- indeed, if there was one theme the room's decorations had now, it was warfare.

Briefly Jack hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. This looked like somebody else's room. Was this really his son? Where had all these new interests, hobbies, fascinations come from?

Jack supposed that many parents before him had gone through realizations like this. When boys started thinking of themselves as young men all of a sudden, you had to expect some changes. Sometimes even drastic ones. Jack just never expected this out of Mark, though. He'd never imagined Mark's teenage years would manifest in this way.

"Mark," Jack began carefully, "I wanted to come up here and talk to you a few minutes. That all right with you?"

"Sure, Dad," Mark said, gripping the weight tighter as he slowly raised and lowered his right arm.

"Well," Jack said as he stood near the dresser, "I just feel like we've been growing kind of distant lately. Drifting apart a bit. I didn't want you to get so upset that one day; I understand you're a teenager now. Things have to change- you want to be a young man instead of a kid now. There's nothing wrong with that. I can accept that, even support you in it. You really have done some growing up, Mark, and I can tell you want to start taking charge of your own life. That's great. It is." Jack paused, and Mark kept lifting, shifting the single dumbbell from his right to left hand. He nodded, though, to show he was listening.

"The thing is, Mark, I'm still your father. You're still my son. I left you in Maine for two weeks because I had to, and I'm never going to leave you again. Having you is a great help to me, Mark. And as you get older, go into high school and college, I want you to know I'm behind you all the way. Wherever you go, whatever you do, I'll be there to help you. I'm here for you, Mark. And I always will be."

Mark huffed a bit, raising the weight in his left arm again. He had really been only half-listening, and there was a fine line between not listening and not caring anyway. Mark liked to think he walked that line every day in his life.

"Thanks, Dad," Mark said after a few moments. "I appreciate that. I really do." They were the right words, but they seemed a little contrived. A little forced. They sounded only vaguely like the words the old Mark would have said. Jack had always known Mark to be a boy who was very plain about his emotions; if he was moved by something, you could see it and he was quick to tell you so. This Mark, though, was very different. He was distant at times, often difficult to read; more than once lately Jack had wondered if Mark wasn't making his face a mask- one that hid what he was really thinking. Not at all a tactic Mark had ever even shown interest in using in previous years.

Then Mark went and just happened to bring up the very thing Jack was going to have to talk about next. Lifting the weight in his left arm and admiring the way his bicep visibly bulged now, Mark wished he could drop to the floor and start doing some pushups, really shake up his routine and start working himself into a sweat. Dad was here right now, though, so it seemed inappropriate.

If only Megan could see me right now, Mark thought, and wanted to smile when he realised she probably soon would. She was so totally into him. I'll work up a sweat with her, all right, Mark thought absently.

After a moment, though, Mark's mind returned to more important matters- the only one, really, that mattered more than getting to the next base did. Mark said calmly, "Still going to see Aunt Susan and Uncle Wallace on Easter, right?"

Jack hesitated, and right away Mark paused in his lifting, sensing something was wrong. He made himself continue, but now really was paying attention. Unlike before, there now could be no doubt at all. Mark was very interested in what his father was going to say.

"Mark," Jack said carefully, already sensing his son was not gonna like hearing this. "Something's come up with the company. I've got this deal I'm working on right now, a contract with this firm over in Maryland. It's pretty intensive work right now, and I can't risk taking even a couple days off until I know more about which way this is going. We'll need to stay here for Easter."

Abruptly, the ten-pound weight hit the floor with a crash. The auburn-haired boy was instantly facing Jack, his eyes blazing furiously.

"What?" Mark yelled, as if he'd gone deaf.

Oh, shit, Jack thought with dread, sensing another argument coming. Why did he have to deal with this, after he- and, to be fair, Mark- had already been through so much?

"We can go to Maine for Christmas," Jack said, hoping that would help. But instead, Mark just got angrier.

"Henry and I have been looking forward to this for months, Dad!" Mark yelled, the veins on his neck standing out like cords. "Months! What am I supposed to tell him now? We're just putting it off until the end of the year? How do you know- how do you know something won't come up then, too?" Mark's voice was steadily rising in pitch and volume, and every one of his growing muscles seemed to stand out, tensed to the maximum as he yelled in fury. He was a strong-looking boy now. Jack was still considerably taller and probably stronger, but Mark was not a kid anymore either- Jack did not like seeing his son this angry. Not at all.

"You can tell Henry we'll be there in December, Mark," Jack said, keeping his voice level.

"_Fuck_ December!" Mark screamed, furiously slamming a fist into the side of his dresser; the model submarine teetered on its stand but didn't fall over.

"Mark," Jack said, his voice rising, "I'm not doing this on purpose! You know these things come up sometimes!"

"I don't care!" Mark yelled, getting angrier every second. "I don't _fucking_ care!"

"Mark!" Jack exclaimed, shouting now himself. "I understand if you're disappointed, but don't you _ever_ swear at me again!"

"I'll do a _lot_ better than that, Dad!" Mark shouted, hurling one of his weights across the room. It crashed into his bookshelf, causing the whole thing to shake with the force of the impact. For just a moment the two stood there inches from each other, each shocked and angry with the other. Mark was so furious he didn't know what he might do if he let loose; Jack was hardly a weak man in a fight, but even so felt a tremor of fear at the strength of this teenage son of his. Mark was staring at him with a look of not just dislike or anger, but hate- Jack had never seen his son so angry. Never in either of their lives had an argument gone this far.

Suddenly Mark lunged forward; Jack took a step back, fearing things were about to go even farther. Instead, Mark yelled in anger and shoved Jack out of the way, bolting out of his room, down the hall, and down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He tripped and fell close to the bottom, banging his elbows and knees painfully, but rolled to his feet and kept going. He could hear his father calling after him, hurrying to the top of the stars, but Mark didn't care. He threw the front door open, slammed the door behind him, and sprinted down the front lawn and into the neighborhood street. He bolted out and away from his father's house, running downhill and vanishing from sight quite rapidly. Sweat gleamed on Mark's bare upper body now; between his workout, his furious argument with his father, and now his headlong sprint down the street and towards the end of the neighborhood, he was finally working up that sweat he'd wished for.

Briefly, Mark noticed that while his legs were pumping, his heart pounding and his lungs taking in air just as fast as they could, he was nonetheless running faster than he'd ever done in his life. He was in truly excellent shape, and getting better all the time, just like he'd figured. Here was the proof. In not even a minute Mark had run outside his neighborhood, and there finally slowed his pace. His senses came back to him a little, and Mark realised some of the neighbors may have seen him. Perhaps they'd noticed something unusual about it. Mark didn't usually run topless like this- he loved admiring himself and his growing muscles these days, but showing off the results of his hard work was not something he usually included on runs. After a few moments, Mark shrugged, setting his pace at a steady jog. It was fairly warm out, and Mark was known to many now as a boy fond of physical exercise. Aside from his father, who would no doubt be trying to find him even now, most anyone else would just assume Mark was a boy out on an evening run. That's just what he wanted them to think.

Mark ran. He jogged, really, but periodically increased his pace, even sprinting at certain points. Just to shake things up. Normally he would have taken some real pleasure in this, enjoyed the good exercise and what great shape he was in these days. But today was different. Mark's explosive fury remained with him still, and he periodically growled and swore violently, bitterly disappointed. He wasn't going to see Henry this month. Or the next month. Or all summer. He'd have to wait until the end of the year- and Mark had promised Henry he'd be there for Easter.

Henry sounded a little lonely these days.

He was trying to hide it, of course, and in fact was doing so good a job anyone besides Mark probably wouldn't have even noticed. But Mark was different- he probably understood Henry better than anyone else alive. Henry was trying to be strong for his cousin- his brother- but was a hurting kid nonetheless. As much as he tried to hide it, he had no real friends besides Mark- you could take one look at Henry and know that for a fact. And Henry clearly didn't know how to be "one of the boys" like Mark was doing so well these days. Mark resolved even as he ran that he would change that- teach Henry not only how much being "cool" mattered, but how to do it. None of that changed the current situation, though; Henry was alone, and Mark could do nothing to help him. Mark didn't even want to imagine what this would do for Henry, having to wait so many more months all of a sudden, when just days ago he'd been sure Mark would be in Maine in a matter of days. It would be a bitter disappointment for Henry- Mark knew it was for him. But Mark didn't even consider not telling Henry about it. Not for even one moment. Henry was his c-brother, and brothers told each other the truth.

So Mark jogged clean up Falconbridge, taking in an admiring glance or two along the way. Some older folks working on their garden nodded in approval- here was a handsome boy if they'd ever seen one, working hard to keep himself in shape. After all, he was clearly already there. And Mark winked at a pretty high school girl out on a run as they passed; the sophomore was a little surprised, but took in the auburn-haired boy's cute looks and firm, strong form and gave him a second glance. Who was that? Did she go to school with him?

All of this was just surface appearances, though. Mark knew now what his focus was, and beneath his outward calmness worked towards it with a single-minded sense of purpose. He eventually exited the area of neighborhoods he lived in entirely, turning left to head up a major road with two lanes going either way. After some time heading along this road, Mark saw the brightly-lit parking lot and glowing sign of a 7-11.

They would have payphones there.

Glad at least for the chance to speak to Henry- nothing mattered more right now than informing him of the news- Mark jogged up off the side of the road and into the 7-11's parking lot. It was after dark now, and those people present were a little confused at so young a boy out so late like this. Mark didn't care. He wanted to piss on their cars, just to show how much he didn't care. Mark really didn't give a shit.

Finally dropping his pace to a walk, Mark sighed, panting a little- he'd finally worn himself out. He didn't sit down to rest, though, but instead patted his mesh pockets, praying that his wallet- which Mark kept with him at all times- hadn't been lost during the trip. He sighed in relief after a moment, finding its reassuring shape in his left pocket. Mark took the red-brown bifold wallet out of his pocket and searched it for change; he closed his eyes in relief when he found he had just enough quarters for the call he was gonna have to make. Dropping the coins into the slot of the first payphone he found, Mark stood there off to the side of the 7-11 parking lot, praying for somebody at Henry's house to pick up.

"Hello?"

_Henry_!

"Uh, Henry?" Mark said, still trying to take back his breath a bit. Damn cigarettes. Would he give them up, though? Never.

"Mark!" Henry said, sounding pleased. "How's it going?"

There was no other way to do it. Mark owed Henry the truth.

"I'm not coming over for Easter," Mark said in a dead voice, damning his father for this with every word.

Henry's tone changed abruptly. He was confused- shocked. "What?" he said sharply. "Wh-why?"

"Dad has this business deal going on," Mark said, hating himself for the pain he was no doubt already causing Henry. "He needs to stay here."

For perhaps a full minute- it seemed like a lot longer- Mark just heard silence on the line. Nothing- just a vague hum of background noise. Then Henry spoke, his voice calm and eerily detached.

"I'm gonna kill myself."

Mark felt like something heavy had just been dropped on his head; he teetered as he held the corded phone, feeling as if reality itself was swaying before him.

_Oh, God, please no_.

For not even one second did Mark believe Henry was kidding. He knew the blonde too well for that. This was Henry Evans after all. Henry, who thought playing on the train tracks to be a great idea of fun for the weekend. Fear and Henry were not well acquainted, not by any stretch. Mark knew very few things scared his cousin. Henry liked to see death too much for it to hold any real horror for him. Mark held a suspicion that Henry often had toyed with death in the past, merely so the thrill of that extreme danger would bring some kind of excitement into his life. If he did anything now, though… Mark didn't think Henry would be backing off this time. Normally he always would- it was just a game. This next time Henry went to stand near the edge of the cliff near his family's home, or picked up rail spikes by the tracks and a big, heavy diesel came along, the blonde might not come back.

_No_! Mark thought furiously. _If _I _was there, he'd be fine! I could save him! If he stood to close to that cliff, I'd pull him back if he started leaning forward. If he wouldn't get out of the way when that huge diesel locomotive came onward, threatening to run him down, I'd tackle him. _I'd_ save his life._

But then, Mark realised, if he was there, Henry would never be _doing_ this thing in the first place.

Suddenly, Mark noticed Henry was talking; some vague, disjointed question about who would cry at his funeral. If anyone did. Abruptly, tears began forcing their way into his eyes, and Mark barked out a desperate "No!" that was halfway a sob, attracting some strange glances from a guy coming out into the parking lot.

Whatever he'd been saying, Henry stopped just as suddenly as he'd started. "Huh?" he said, sounding almost comically surprised; like he'd broken out of a trance.

"No!" Mark cried again, wanting to yell that again and again until Henry had heard it enough. Until Henry was safe. "You said we were brothers, Henry," Mark said, struggling to keep from breaking down entirely. "You said we were _brothers_! That we'd never be done, that we'd look _out_ for each other!" He sighed, sobbing a little and sniffling. "Please!" he said, pleading now. "We'll see each other before Christmas, I _promise_! If-if I gotta fucking _walk_ to Maine, I'll do it! I swear I will! I don't care what I gotta do, Henry, just _please_- don't say what you said!"

"I'm all by myself up here, Mark," Henry said in that flat, detached voice. "I'm lost."

Mark understood just from those words the extent of what his co-brother was going through. Henry had never had any use for either of his siblings- he'd been unfortunate on that front, not given a true brother who he could trust. Instead all he got was Connie and Richard, annoying brats who stole his parents' love and attention. Henry was strong and brave, though, and had lived life well on his own for twelve whole years.

Then Mark showed up. That changed the game- changed everything. Now Henry had a friend, a pal- a brother. Someone he could talk to, confide in, have fun with. Someone who made life infinitely better than it had ever been before. Henry had gained something he hadn't even known he was missing- and then after just two short weeks lost it again. He had probably been trying to keep up hope this whole time, hold his morale up and soldier on, if only for his brother Mark. But even the strong had limits- even Henry could only endure so much. Henry's will had broken when he heard Mark was not coming this month like he'd been wishing for, hoping for. To have it taken away so suddenly, just at the last week before- it was too much. Henry was done. His endurance had reached its end; he'd just had enough.

But Mark couldn't give up. Every inch of him was pained beyond words at the thought of losing Henry. He had absolutely no doubt now, standing there in his shoes and exercise shorts outside a 7-11, that if Henry died suddenly, Mark would also. One boy's death would be followed shortly by the other. Mark simply could _not_ bear to have that happen.

"Henry," he pleaded, "I'll _walk_ to Maine. You hear me?" He started crying, not even ashamed of himself for it like he otherwise would have been. "I'll walk until my feet _bleed_. Then I'll keep walking, until I'm _there_." Mark paused, taking in a breath and composing himself a little. "You believe me?"

There was a silence, and briefly Mark felt a surge of panic- he feared he was now talking to a dead line, already too late to stop his cousin's suicide. But after a few moments, Henry almost whispered back, "I believe you, Mark."

"Then promise me you'll be okay," Mark pleaded. "Just_- stay there_, okay? I promise I'll see you before Christmas. We'll figure something out."

Henry sighed and was silent for a time. He no longer had that eerie, frightening calm about him- that cold, detached manner he knew how to do so well. Now Henry just sounded tired when he spoke, and odd as it might have seemed, that made Mark feel a whole world better. "I promise, Mark," he said. "I'll be okay. Let's-let's figure something out, all right?"

"We will," Mark said with forced firmness. He had no plan at all- not yet- but he refused to let Henry know that. His cousin had been through enough lately. He needed something to reassure him, give him hope- Mark was even willing to lie if it meant giving Henry that something.

"I'll be here," Henry replied quietly.

The two boys talked for only a minute or two longer, both sounding like what they were- emotionally drained, tired beyond words. But when Mark hung up, exhausted as he was, he felt better. Henry had been informed, and while the worst had nearly happened- Henry had nearly gone over the edge over that one and perhaps literally at that- Mark had talked him down from it. Mark had perhaps saved his cousin's life tonight, and he had a feeling that it was going to come to mean a lot to the both of them.

Exhausted and too damn tired to even get up and walk home, Mark just sat down on the curb at the 7-11 and waited. He'd seen the county patrol car pulling in across the parking lot a minute or two ago, probably here by coincidence but perhaps here because of a call from his father. On the lookout for a thirteen-year-old boy with auburn hair, blue eyes and nothing on but running shoes and black exercise shorts, perhaps the officers riding in the Caprice had noticed someone matching that description as they arrived at the 7-11, and instead cautiously waited and watched while they also radioed in.

Whatever the reason, Mark's thoughts ultimately turned out to be correct. The two sheriff's deputies cautiously approached him soon after he hung up, and upon seeing he wasn't going to run asked if he was Mark Evans. Sure enough, Mark nodded that he was. They were careful about it- Mark was a runaway kid, not some hooligan or criminal- but Mark was cuffed and put in the back of the big Caprice all the same. He took all this with total indifference. He was just too damn tired. None of this crap mattered to him now.

As he rode in the back of the county police car, on his way back to his father's house after all, Mark's eyes took on a dark, hateful look. Anger- no, hate- surged into him, and suddenly, for the first time, Mark truly realised that he hated his father. Mom had passed away not suddenly, but gradually, and Dad had done nothing about it. Henry had come into his life and gladly given Mark everything he wanted and needed, and Mark's dad had just taken all that away.

_When I get home_, Mark thought with a dark look in his eyes, _I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch_.

Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow- but soon. And that was all that mattered.


	14. Chapter 14- In Search of Answers

**Chapter XIV- In Search of Answers**

* * *

It was damn cold outside. Arizona might have already been well on its way to being out of the winter, but Maine was a long way from that point. It was the middle of Saturday afternoon, and it couldn't be any more than twenty or thirty degrees outside. When the wind chill kicked in every now and then, the temperature dropped quite close to freezing, and at night it just got colder still.

Henry didn't care. He liked the cold.

The warm, milder summers that Maine typically had stood in sharp contrast to its cold, brutal winters. Most Americans had little conception of the kind of cold you dealt with here, this far north from the warm climates of Florida and Georgia. Maine was a harsh place in the winter, and Henry had lived here all his life. He rather liked the cold, though, and not just because of the discomfort and pain it caused- which, after all these years, he was more than used to. Henry liked the fact that Maine was a state that demanded much of its people, forcing them to become hardy and strong and able to adapt to the harsh changes brought on by the winter. Maine was not a state for the foolish or weak, and its climate meant that there were no out-of-state retirees flooding in and overrunning the state's original culture, something that was indeed the case with the state at the extreme southern end of the East Coast.

Maine was no place for the weak. You had to change, adapt- and learn to overcome. Henry liked that, and liked very much to think that a life of growing up here had helped make him strong, like he was today.

But Henry was bored. He was tired, bored and now very upset. He felt sad, lonely, lost- a kind of emotional turmoil he'd never even experienced before. How had this happened? Where had all of it come from? Was this all because he really missed his good friend, his blood brother Mark? There was a good chance that was so. Both boys, when they'd talked yesterday, had agreed to try to come up with a plan of some kind, some way to ensure that they would indeed see each other before December of this year. Henry was normally the one to take care of these things, but so far he had nothing. He'd withdrawn into himself lately, so preoccupied he'd even left Connie alone. And most of the boys at school that he normally picked on- or picked fights with- he was ignoring too. Henry had just been drifting through the days, not really noticing much difference from one to another.

Today, though, Henry vowed he would come up with something. Anything. But he had to help Mark- and perhaps help himself. Henry felt so indifferent to whether he lived or died these days- a state of mind that was more heightened for him than usual anyway- that he feared to even toy around with death like he sometimes did. Stand in front of the train and jump away at the last second, stand near the edge of the cliffs- Henry didn't trust himself near those places now. He was afraid of what he might do if he went near there.

Henry was often busy wishing time could hurry up and get to his birthday in August so he could be thirteen like Mark was. Henry wanted to be cool like his cousin, kissing girls and hanging out with the guys. He was good-looking- and knew that to be more than just his own opinion- in good shape physically, smart, wealthy, and a talented soccer player. Henry had all the right stuff to be "one of the guys", yet so far only Mark had achieved it. He'd been telling Henry all about it in their last few calls, bragging about lifting weights with the eighth graders and sharing cigarettes with the soccer team captain Jake Schwarz.

It made Henry turn green with envy. But Henry just didn't know how to do what Mark was doing. Mark gave a shit what those dorks around him thought, that was the difference. Or it at least seemed to be. Mark hung out with these losers around him, made friends with people to whom he was greatly superior. Why? Henry didn't understand it. He hated those idiots he had to call his classmates, and sometimes was fifty-fifty on whether he would rather kill a girl or date her. Mark didn't seem to see the kids around him any different, not the way he talked to Henry- but he seemed to genuinely like hanging out with "the guys". Henry knew Mark understood this stuff better than he did, and wanted to ask him about it- but there were far more important matters to consider right now.

Like how to help Mark. How to overcome the difficulty that his father's idiotic business deals had thrown into the situation, blocking the reunion the two cousins had been anticipating for months. It was a disappointment that had nearly broken Henry's spirit, and saddened both boys beyond words. Something would have to be done.

Henry made his excuses around 2:30pm and commenced a walk across town, into the hills and towards the imposing form of Fleetwood Hall. The tall, aging brick mansion was a mess these days; its once-glorious gardens were now overrun with weeds, the original plants now either dead or messy and unkempt. Vines and other climbers grew all over the outside of the house in the warmer months, and in the winter the grounds were covered in snow and ice. But the house had been built to last, and so it had. The high brick wall that surrounded the entire property had withstood the years intact, and the house itself had withstood well more than thirty years of neglect.

This was where Henry was headed today.

He typically visited Fleetwood Hall once or twice a month, going there when he needed some space, time to think- or just a chance to explore, wandering without fear in the ghostly old mansion his great-aunt had owned ever since it was built. Preston Whitmore had ordered it to be constructed in her honour, sure enough- but Helen Whitmore had been the one to become the house's chief designer, the one ordering most of its many odd features, additions and changes. She had spent millions on the house, making it far more extravagant than the Winchester House ever was- and Henry sneered at the notion that it was haunted. So what if it was? The Hall was bigger, grander, had many more odd and seemingly pointless features like the Perspective Hallway, the Glass Library, and the Reversal Room- the last of those three being a perfect replica of Preston Whitmore's office of 1947, but upside down. Desks and lamps were bolted to the ceiling, and all were real. Then of course there was the Clock Tower, from which Preston himself had allegedly jumped in the fifties. A shame, some said. A terrible accident. From what Henry could tell, Great Aunt Helen had never given much of a damn.

The Hall was a huge place, possessing over a hundred rooms and- depending on where you were- more than half a dozen floors. There was a wine cellar still holding hundreds of bottles of wine- Henry had found it once, close by the kitchen. He'd considered drinking a 1938 bottle of French Chateau Latour, even going so far as to uncork it and sniff the wine inside. Henry didn't know much about wine, but looking at the dates and names of the bottles, the many countries and US states they came from, Henry figured the collection of wine alone had to be worth millions.

Henry had lost his nerve, though, that day in the wine cellar. Sometimes he felt like the house wasn't as dead or empty as some supposed. He'd read an article by some psychology professor this past year, suggesting that Fleetwood Hall was a "dead cell", a house that was indeed possessed of some spiritual form or life- a house that had indeed taken on a life of its own, but after so many years of standing empty and alone had gone dormant. Perhaps even died. Henry was almost tempted to try contacting this professor, telling her that this theory she had was close to being right- but he'd rejected it almost as soon as he'd thought of it. For one thing, no university professor, uncommonly insightful or not, would care to listen to the words of a twelve-year-old boy. Secondly, Henry loved the old house, honoured always the memory of Great Aunt Helen. He was not about to reveal its secrets to anyone- especially a person who was closer to the truth than most.

The blonde felt like he was sometimes not alone in Fleetwood Hall; there were odd drafts of cool air sometimes, unexplainable given the lack of central air and the fact that nothing should have been moving at all. The house was empty, yet Henry sometimes wondered if that were really so. He was a vigilant, alert boy, and sometimes looked up or peered back behind him, having that odd feeling that he was being watched. Never did his feelings to that effect bring him fear; Henry was sure, absolutely sure that the house was somehow alive, and that it bore him no ill will. He just felt strange sometimes, and knew that while his presence was permitted- in part due to his reverence for the Hall and Helen Whitmore, being that Henry himself was a blood relative- he was not entirely free to do whatever he wanted. He could more or less do as he pleased- but Henry had to be respectful.

So Henry left the wine cellar alone, though he looked forward to returning one day. He had spent hours searching the house- at least a full day or two altogether, over the years. Henry liked the cool, slightly musty air of the Hall. He loved its cavernous rooms, its absolute contempt for "what's the cost?" in every inch of detail. The doorknobs on even the closets looked like they would sell for thousands these days.

The library- there were two, the Glass Library on that rounded turret on the third floor, and the Grand Library on the second- contained thousands of books, many of them first editions, signed by the author. Henry had spent hours in the two libraries alone, reading over the collection and coming to have a secret fondness for literature. The Grand Library was different from the Glass Library because it was more traditional- high wooden walls, every inch of it lined with oak or mahogany. Tall glass windows lined the one side, but they were stained glass- like you would expect to find in a church. That way the light of the sun could be allowed in, but never could the outside world intrude or bother you in your studies.

Henry felt more at home in the vast not-quite-emptiness of Fleetwood Hall than he did in his own house. He had once found one of the many bedrooms- one of the grand ones, perhaps reserved for Preston or Helen in their day- and napped there for perhaps an hour. He had felt daring, crawling under those obscenely expensive sheets and falling asleep in a bed that had once belonged to the house's former- or current- master. But nothing had happened- nothing bad anyway- and Henry still remembered that nap as the best damn nap he'd ever had. He had felt not just energized, but healed- as if the house had cleaned him up just a little, strengthened him in the time he'd slept. Perhaps it had been a feeling, and that only- but Henry had made some observations since then in his trips to the Hall, noting, for one thing, that his pesky habit of smoking at least a whole pack every month didn't bother his lungs as much as it should have. Henry was closing in on thirteen and already a regular smoker- but he didn't feel at all like he was suffering reduced lung capacity or overall weakened health because of it. All of those evil, nasty side effects he'd always been warned and warned about- Henry was sure his escaping those had something to do with his regular visits, spending hours breathing in that old air, preserved for all these years in Fleetwood Hall.

So on Saturday, March 21st, 1994, Henry made his way across town, zipped up in his tan, fur-lined winter jacket, a black wool cap, and black leather gloves specially made for his young hands by a tailor Wallace knew. He was even wearing his gray wool pants. None of that made much difference, though- the cold bit and stung him all the same.

Henry reached the wrought-iron gates after perhaps an hour of walking, as usual unobserved as he made his way up the hill. The road that Fleetwood Hall was set on had no real neighbors- those few other estates nearby, for this was a wealthy area on the outside of Rockbridge, were some distance off and quite content to act like the old, possibly-haunted mansion did not exist. Henry slipped under the front gates as a cold gust of wind hit him, walking steadily across the circular front drive, past the massive stone fountain and up to the front doors.

Those tall, heavy doors had been locked for decades. Supposedly a caretaker or somebody came by once in a while, but Henry doubted it. What the guy probably did- if he even existed at all- was drive up to the front gates, make sure they were still locked, and drive off. That place gave _everybody_ the willies. Well, everybody except Henry.

The doors were set a few feet back from the drive, so brick hung overhead and to either side, stretching forward for some ten feet and shielding Henry from the wind rather nicely.

"Thanks, Great Aunt Helen," Henry muttered with a small smile, taking out the pack of cigarettes in his pocket and flipping open his Zippo lighter. He stood there for perhaps five minutes in the shelter of the entrance, inhaling the smoke, holding it in, and breathing it out into the wind. It didn't help much- but it calmed his nerves a little. It made Henry feel a little better, and that counted for something.

Finally, Henry ground the cigarette out on the underside of his boot, tucking the butt away near the front door, remembering that he would have to come back for it later. Henry never, ever smoked inside Fleetwood Hall- he wasn't sure if Great Aunt Helen would approve. A massive painting of her hung in the grand entrance hall, and Henry would bow respectfully to it every time he entered before proceeding further. Henry didn't want to displease her by bringing that vice of his into the house.

Henry reached out and set a hand on the doorknob. Just like usual, his body suddenly tensed up, thrumming with energy as his eyes stared blankly open. Henry concentrated on one thought- one specific request- letting the house know who he was, and asking respectfully that he be allowed to enter. The house knew his touch well, and after only a few moments the odd connection made by the doorknob was broken. Henry was released from that strange trance, gasping a little as he released his hand. The doorknob always felt hot as he let go at that moment, like it had zapped him with a few volts. Henry reached out again, though, and the doorknob was cold from the outside air. Perfectly normal. He turned it, and the brass knob turned easily enough, swinging one of the two heavy front doors open and letting Henry in. He soon closed it again, grateful to let Fleetwood Hall shield him from the harshness of the world outside.

The Corridor- for that was the name of the massive, unbelievably-long hallway that ran the length of the house on the second floor- was for the most part dark, and as always quiet. Having hung up his coat, hat and gloves in a closet near the front door, Henry ascended the dozens of steps of the grand staircase and turned left, heading down the Corridor and for the stairs he knew would take him to the Glass Library. It took many minutes of wandering- Henry never allowed himself to panic or become rushed, as that seemed to invite the hostility or aggression of the house- but he made it sure enough.

Henry swung open the door to the Glass Library, and the massive, priceless English chandelier again glowed with light, illuminating the tall, wide dome of milky, marble-like glass nicely. The floor- a massive circle over two hundred feet across if you looked straight down on it- was made of glass also, this time the same kind you found in mirrors. The bookshelves, lining the room's marble-white glass walls, were a dark green- the natural colour of glass. Only a brick housing and dark slate roof on the outside broke the room's impression of being made entirely from glass- and with no windows in this library, you could not tell that from inside the house. Not at all.

Walking into the room, Henry was impressed as always, even awed. This room had to be capable of holding a hundred people easily, perhaps more. There was smooth, cool glass everywhere- Henry loved it. This was just the kind of thing you'd expect to find in a palace of ice, but with none of that harsh, awful cold. Instead, it was simply cool- the cold of the winter without its deathly chill. Henry liked it.

Curiously walking the room in silence, looking down at his image in the floor or gazing up at the ceiling, Henry thought about his cousin- his brother, his good friend Mark. Not far from this room, just down the hall, going on a year ago Henry had taken care of business quite nicely. He'd led Mark deep into the house- too far for him to ever get out on his own. Especially not if you were a problem- Henry knew he was only able to walk the house like it was an ordinary mansion because it liked him. If it didn't- or perhaps if it was just feeling mischievous, whoever you were- the Hall had a way of changing things up. The architecture you saw yourself rarely ever matched up with the blueprints- Henry found the only way he could ever stay oriented, ever have a chance of finding what he'd come for, was to focus his thoughts on one place or room as he searched for it. To a concentrated, well-organized mind, the house seemed to respond with some measure of respect. Of course, Henry was blood. That made a world of difference. An outsider with a whole team of help, even, would be in serious trouble here.

Henry tried to remember what had happened that day. He knew Mark had run out of the room in a panic, and Henry had watched in awe as the mirror floor of the Glass Library became porous for Mark, rippling like water at his steps and starting to let him sink in like it was very thick syrup. Mark had escaped the room- just barely- but Henry had taken off running by then, and had caught up to his cousin around the next corner, as Mark fled down the hall and back towards the stairwell. Henry had overwhelmed his cousin's efforts to fight back, and had throttled him into unconsciousness. It had tired Henry, that effort, as had the process of heaving Mark up and over his shoulders and carrying him back to the Glass Library. From there Henry's memory was vague; he had really just been operating on intuition from them on… or perhaps, taking guiding hints that the house gave him.

Henry had put Mark back in the Glass Library; he knew that much. In his past explorations, the blonde had rightly sensed that this room was somehow a particularly strong place for the house. He'd once passed by here and seen a dead body hanging from the chandelier; a group of college boys had once broken in here for a prank or something, perhaps on a dare. That was what the story said. At any rate, they had gotten lost, and only five of the six had ultimately made it out. The sixth was still in here somewhere.

That body Henry had seen- it looked like some kid in his twenties, and Henry had nearly screamed when he'd seen it hanging from that chandelier, a rope about his neck. He'd been dead for a while. But Henry had darted out of sight, as if afraid the body would open its eyes and see him, and when he'd dared to look back inside the Glass Library, the rope and the body were gone.

So what had happened? Henry had a hard time trying to remember. He frowned in concentration, but couldn't come up with much. He had a vague memory of laying Mark out flat on the floor, knowing that was… was what needed to happen. It would begin the process of changing Mark. Fixing him. Making the stronger boy he wanted to be a reality.

Henry took a few more steps that were oddly slower, softer- he looked down and saw the floor actually ripple around his foot a little, patting down softly on its surface. It wasn't turning to quicksand or anything- nothing at all like it had done to Mark- but the change was there, however slight.

The blonde boy felt very tired now; truth be told he'd been tired all day. The sleep he'd gotten after staying up so late last night, thinking about the new problem and when he was gonna see Mark next, had not been very complete.

_Maybe I should lie down_, Henry thought distantly. _Yes, lie down and rest, _a voice seemed to answer_. You'll feel better_.

So Henry did, lying out flat on the shiny, mirror-glass floor of the library. He folded his hands on his taut belly, over that warm red sweater he liked so much. Then Henry made himself close his eyes, calming himself and slowly forcing all worries and anger from his mind. Soon he began to breathe deeply and regularly.

What happened next Henry wasn't really sure. He must surely have fallen asleep, because it had to have been the strangest dream he'd ever experienced. He saw himself last December, breathing hard as he carried Mark back into the library and set him down. Henry saw himself standing near Mark, panting as he stared down at his unconscious cousin.

Then it happened.

Mark disappeared into the floor, slowly sinking beneath the mirror-glass surface. Henry exclaimed in surprise and hurried to the spot, staring down at it. The glass was not so completely reflective now; Henry could see his auburn-haired cousin beneath it, floating slowly along as if he was underwater- much like Connie had done when Henry had put her under the ice at the lake. Dark water ran down there under the glass; it seemed to flow and twist around Mark, but never actually touched him. He floated slowly along, gradually travelling from the center of the room to one side. Henry followed along, staring down in absolute fascination. Never, ever had he seen anything like this.

A vague, yet fascinating, incredible thought reached Henry.

_I want to touch it_.

No, better yet, stick his head under it. Like you did with a pond or lake if you wanted to yell at the mermaids to stop banging on their conches and go to sleep. You know, if you lived by a lake that had mermaids.

Regardless, Henry very much wanted to put his head under that glass and open his eyes. Surely it would be possible. The floor held his weight now, but it felt slightly soft, as if it was not really the glass floor it pretended to be.

Henry dropped to his knees, gazing down at his cousin as he moved slowly along under the floor, his eyes closed.

Henry slowly lowered his face to the glass.

Now seeing this memory through his own eyes at the time, Henry watched in fascination as he swayed oddly on his knees, gazing down at his cousin. His face was somehow raised from the floor again, but he hung over Mark- who for some reason the black liquid had stopped moving along for right now.

Henry groaned, croaking oddly- it was the weirdest sound he'd ever heard, completely unlike a frog or toad yet somehow exactly like it. As if an electric shaver had learned to croak like a bullfrog. A strange, gray cloud of vapor emerged from his throat, hanging in front of Henry for a moment before descending down to the floor, towards Mark. Henry's cousin, meanwhile, had opened his throat, and a similarly-sized cloud of glowing amber emerged, rising out of the floor as the gray vapor descended. The two vapors passed without touching. The one descended to Mark, reaching him and turning jet-black as the dark liquid of the floor reached it. The amber vapor, meanwhile, glowing slightly, rose to meet Henry and soon vanished inside his open mouth. He felt a strange warmth, and suddenly felt like he didn't just know Mark- but was him.

That feeling passed, though, and Henry abruptly jerked his face up from where it was, hovering low over the floor. He gasped, feeling incredibly tired and drained, and rolled to move away from sitting directly above Mark. Henry breathed, grateful for air- it seemed like during that bizarre few moments he'd forgotten how to take in oxygen properly. Sometime later- he had no idea how long- Mark was on the surface of the floor again. Henry, incredibly tired as it was, had known it would not do to have Mark wake up here. With superhuman effort- causing his arms and shoulders incredible strain- Henry lifted his cousin again, this time carrying him all the way back to the grand entrance room. There he had placed his winter coat around Mark, waiting patiently until he woke up.

Henry suddenly opened his eyes- he blinked, sitting up and looking around. This was 1994, not late 1993. What he had just seen- that was the past. That had happened not quite a year ago, when Henry had saved his cousin from being a sissy for the rest of his life. What were those vapors he'd seen- what had been happening? It seemed like something from Mark- something- had come out, and gone into Henry. And vice versa. What did that mean?

Were the two more alike now, because of that? Had Henry given something of himself to Mark- and Mark to him?

Henry didn't know how the house worked- what it had done, exactly, to set Mark right and fix him. But perhaps… that was how it had been. Henry got up and began pacing the room again, thinking as he walked under the glass chandelier. He remembered what Mark had been like at first- so scared, so nervous and jumping at every shadow. And oh, how righteous he'd been. So pious and moral. But Mark had been a good kid at heart- Henry sensed right away he had the right stuff to be Henry's friend. The tests Henry had put Mark through- smoking a cigarette, shooting the dog, throwing bricks through the windows at the rail yard warehouse and tossing Mr. Highway off the bridge- had at times been quite tedious. Mark's whining and hesitation had come close to making Henry very angry. But Henry had been patient, and gradually Mark had come to like his cousin a little. And trust him. Finally, Henry had concluded that they had to take a trip to the Hall- only there, he was somehow quite sure, would Mark be set on the proper path for good. Only there could things be set right.

The house had changed Mark somehow; altered him. In the past, Henry had theorized that Fleetwood Hall had forced out the weakness in Mark, removed the "goody two-shoes" part of him like a tumor or something. But maybe things weren't that simple. Maybe even so strange and powerful a place as Fleetwood Hall was not all-powerful, and had limits to what it could do and how it could do it. The house, perhaps, had been unable to force a change in Mark, who was too 'nice' for that. Not outright. Instead, the Hall had worked out a trade. To change Mark's character, it had to do… an _exchange_. A bit of Mark for Henry, a bit of Henry for Mark.

_That would make a hell of a strong bond_, Henry noted. _We really would be brothers after that, if that's what happened. We'd almost be telepathic or something, never truly apart and inseparable when together_.

Maybe that was what had happened. It certainly made sense, more so than Henry's other theories.

Gradually, Henry began to recover from whatever dream-state he'd gone into. He paced the floor, realizing his new theory was probably correct as his thoughts became sharp and clear. Then he stopped suddenly, looking from one place to another on the floor. After a few moments, he was sure of it.

He'd woken up more than twelve feet away from where he'd laid down.

_I just went under the floor_.

Henry felt excitement humming through him; he wanted to whoop for joy. He'd done it- he'd figured it out! Yet another discovery, one more piece of knowledge that was his. Henry soon headed out of the Glass Library, smiling happily and even whistling a little, calmly heading back for the entrance. Soon, he would begin the trip home. He'd be there just in time for dinner- good timing, as always.

As he walked home, Henry hardly even noticed the cold. His mind was on his cousin, thousands of miles away in Arizona. Henry knew now what would have to be done- and he was equally sure, somehow, that Mark had reached the same conclusion.

Jack Evans needed to be removed from the equation. Taken out of the picture. Plain and simple- he had to go.

But how? It would be small help to Mark if Henry called and simply told him that. Mark would need the _how_ of the question answered. There were so many options, so many ways- and too many were either too obvious as murder rather than an accident, or simply unavailable because Mark's house would likely not have the tools.

But fires- they happened all the time. Bad wiring, a problem with the furnace getting out of hand- all kinds of things could happen.

As he walked home, Henry briefly got a picture- a sight of Mark's house burning down, of Jack just not making it out. And Mark, barely escaping, struggling out as the sole survivor. The heroic boy who had now survived not just one but two lost parents.

Henry broke into a run as he reached Chamberlain Drive. After dinner- just as soon as it was over- he had someone to call.


	15. Chapter 15- The Fallen Angel

**Chapter XV- The Fallen Angel**

* * *

Mark lay naked in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The wireless handset lay beside him on the bed- his dad hadn't taken that away, at least. He'd been grounded, all day long, and would be for the weekend. Jack Evans had finally put his foot down. He couldn't call Alice Davenport, thank God- she was in Maine and in no position to come by and bother him. But Jack was talking about what changes would need to be made- things that would have to be done, for Mark's own good. They had a problem on their hands, and Jack wanted Mark's help in trying to fix it.

Fat chance.

Mark bitterly thought of his planned date with Megan today; he'd called her this afternoon and told her the bad news. She'd been disappointed, sad for him- all Mark told her was that he'd had a fight with his dad, and been grounded for it. That was all she needed to know.

_I could have gotten my first blowjob during a movie, or shortly afterwards_, Mark thought bitterly. _Instead I got to stay here_. He'd jerked off, of course, shortly after talking to Megan on the phone. But obviously that wasn't at _all_ the same. Mark wanted to go out today, see Megan and maybe do some kissing in the dark of a movie theater. Then maybe he could unbuckle his belt, unzip his fly, and they could do a lot more than just kissing. Megan was a great first girlfriend. Her voice, even, smooth and elegant, was quite a turn-on. She was a good-looking girl, and Mark wanted her the more he thought about it. He didn't care much about dating or any of the rest of that crap. But if it got him somewhere he wanted to go- fine. He'd go see movies and take a girl ice-skating and whatever. Whatever it took, he'd do it.

But he was stuck here in this fucking house instead. He wasn't with Megan, or Henry, or Jake- or anybody else he wanted to be with. He was stuck here, and probably with an appointment to see another Alice Davenport. If that hadn't been done already, it would be soon enough. Mark hated therapy. He hated the very idea of it. Those people made so much money off a profession that was 9 times out of 10 bullshit. All they did was confuse you more, if anything- and certainly they didn't do much to help. In any case, Mark could only sneer at the idea of someone being so weak that they needed another person to tell them what to think and how to think it. Weak minds like that were how dictatorships got started, because too many people were too damn weak to make

the decisions themselves.

As it happened, though, Mark liked the idea of a dictatorship these days. It was a simpler process- streamlined, and efficient. Only the strongest men ruled in a one-party state, with the constant jockeying for power a way of making sure that the strongest of them all was always the one in charge. You got more done that way, with no petty squabbles between political parties and running for re-election getting in the way of things.

Mark wanted to be a dictator one day, a strong, iron-handed man whom all would fear and worship. But he wanted to do that with his cousin. He didn't want to rule alone- he wanted Henry there with him. He couldn't bear the thought of living a life without Henry at all anymore. They were just too close for that; it was, perhaps, the only real weakness either of them had.

Towards 3:45 Megan called, and Mark let one hand stray below his waist while he talked with her. They flirted, talking about all the fun they'd have next weekend- when Mark would get out and see her, no matter what happened. Mark told her that next time he saw her, he'd give her a kiss- and anything else she wanted. Megan laughed warmly and told him she had some ideas. Eventually, they hung up, Megan wishing Mark luck with getting off being grounded. Mark thanked her, then promptly finished up and cleaned up the slight mess he'd made on his bed. He was new to all this- everything that came with being thirteen and the changes it brought with it- but he was enjoying what he'd experienced so far immensely. Mark was getting a feeling he was gonna love- absolutely love- being male.

You got to have all the fun and none of the inconvenient consequences or downsides. Boys didn't have to bleed on the toilet every month, or carry a child for nine months if some "fun" on a date or a weekend sleepover had some unintended results. They got to do the fun part, and weren't part of the process for anything else. Boys could lift weights, drive cars, screw girls- do everything they wanted. Girls, in Mark's mind, were really just there to satisfy the wants and needs of the boys. And what was wrong with that? Mark knew that whenever he dated a girl, he'd always treat her well. Generously, even. At least until he got bored, anyway. But how could anyone fault him for that? Going out with one girl for years _had_ to be boring as hell. Mark felt like he'd rather move around, party a little- or a lot. Maybe date two girls at once, keeping one in the dark about the other. You could only do that if they were at two different schools, most likely, and even then it would be a challenge- but Mark liked challenges.

Mark worked out in his room for a while, resting here and there- wishing he was 'working out' on Megan instead. His mind constantly focused in on his current situation, on his father- and how much he hated him. Mark knew he was gonna do something this weekend. He was done putting up with this bullshit. He was ready to go- ready to kill the one thing standing between him and his brother, and move on. He wanted to go to high school with Henry and just raise hell all four years. He wanted to party his ass off, and show Henry all the fine points of how to do it. He had a feeling his brother needed a bit of help there. But that was what brothers were for, after all. To look out for and help each other.

But he wasn't going to see Henry until December. Not if the current situation was left unaltered. And even then, it was late December- almost the end of the year. Mark felt a surge of anger whenever he thought about it- he felt worse than let down, disappointed- he felt betrayed. For so many months he and Henry had together looked forward to March 30- the day when they would be reunited, for however short a time. For months that had been their hope, the thing that had kept each of them going. But suddenly, all that had gone away. The hope they'd been given vanished. And now Mark and Henry had a whole summer and fall to wait before even the hope of seeing each other again would resurface.

Come to think of it, though, Mark wasn't so sure about that either. As he dropped to the floor of his room and did a set of 20 pushups, Mark realised he was not at all willing to believe in the promised visit at Christmastime. Oh, sure, Dad promised that they'd go- but he'd promised for Easter, too. How could Mark expect to know that this wouldn't turn out to be a false hope, too? How was he supposed to know that the trip to Maine for Christmas wouldn't be cancelled just like Easter was?

He couldn't. That was the only answer. Mark kept working out, picking up the intensity and working himself into a sweat. He stopped counting the pushups, the jumping jacks, the sit-ups and curls with the dumbbells. He just did them, thinking furiously that something was gonna have to be done- and that he was in no way willing to wait long before he did it. Given how long-lasting the consequences of this weekend's fight were likely to be, Mark realised it might actually be best to act soon. To just hurry up and get things done rather than wait around about it.

Mark was just starting to debate what kind of plan he would carry out- how he would go about doing what he needed to do- when the phone rang again. He glanced at his watch- it was 4:30or so. Pausing to pull on his boxer-briefs and a pair of jean shorts, Mark picked up the phone, pleased when he recognized the number. This had to be Henry!

"Hello?" Mark said, and sure enough it was.

"Mark," Henry said calmly, sounding much more like his old self. "Doing all right?"

"Grounded," Mark said, sitting down on his bed.

"Sorry to hear about that," Henry said, with some measure of sympathy. Proceeding quickly to what he'd called about, though, Henry lowered his voice a little. "I've got a plan, Mark," he said.

"So do I," Mark said evenly.

"You do?" Henry was surprised, but pleased. "What kind of plan?"

"A good one," Mark said. "Permanent solution is needed to a constant problem."

Mark could almost see Henry grin on the other end of the line; Mark knew he was smiling as the two fell readily into a coded exchange of words.

"Concur," Henry said. "Would AZ like suggestions?"

"Would appreciate, ME," Mark replied with a smile.

"Persistent problems are like the cockroach," Henry said. "Purge it with flame." He grinned a little at the last sentence; he'd always wanted to say that.

"What means is best, ME?" Mark said, eagerly awaiting the answer. If he was following the conversation accurately, Henry was telling him to burn his own house down. To purge the problem he faced with flame- and make sure, obviously, that only he made it out alive. But this would have to be an accident. There had to be no doubt that Mark was the tragic victim, yet again. If anyone even suspected arson, Mark might not see Henry or anyone else for a very long time. And that was unacceptable.

"Accidents happen," Henry said with a shrug, though Mark couldn't see it. "They happen all the time. Just ask my mom about-"

"Mark!" Jack called, heading up the stairs. "Dinner in half an hour!"

"All right, Dad!" Mark called back, doing his best to sound pleasant. "Thanks!"

"See you in a bit," Jack said, heading back downstairs. "Tell Henry I said hi." He'd considered revoking Mark's phone privileges as well as his ability to go out this weekend, but had ultimately decided against that. Mark was angry, sure, but in some ways he had a right to be. He was bitterly disappointed that he wouldn't get to go to Maine for Easter- Jack understood his son and Henry got along very well these days, but hadn't realised how close they'd gotten to be. Even so, that didn't excuse how angry Mark had gotten- a line had to be drawn on these things, for Mark's own good.

"Accidents happen," Henry repeated as Mark held the phone back up to his ear.

"I got it," Mark said. "What kind of accidents?"

"Well," Henry said, "There's electrical fires- problems with the boiler. All kinds of stuff, Mark. You gotta be careful, though. Real careful."

Mark understood what Henry meant- it was a twofold warning, telling him firstly not to get caught, and then secondly not to get killed.

"I'll be careful," Mark said solemnly. "I'll see you soon, Henry."

"See you soon, Mark," Henry answered. He paused, then added again, "Be careful. Really. Don't screw this up, please."

"I won't," Mark said. "I promise."

"I'd better give you some details," Henry said solemnly. "You need to know how to get this done."

For perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, the two boys talked in a vague code, Henry relaying instructions on how to start a fire in the house, how to make it look like an accident- and how to make sure his father didn't make it out when he wasn't supposed to. Mark occasionally asked a question but mostly listened, taking care to write down what he was being told. Henry didn't know the layout of the house but had a decent understanding of electrical systems and typical furnaces used to heat homes; he told Mark everything he could but had to leave some aspects of it to him. The final act itself would have to be carried out by Mark alone.

The full impact of what he was getting ready to do began to weigh on Mark. Not in any of the ways most would have expected- Mark felt no real guilt over what was coming. He was only doing what he had to do, after all- no more and no less. But this was an immensely important moment. He was getting ready to kill someone for the first time- not only that, but kill his father. That wasn't an easy thing to do. And if he failed- if he got caught- Mark would go away for a very long time.

He'd get put in "one of those places", as Henry liked to call them. And if anyone found out Henry's involvement in the plan, Henry would go away too. They'd never see each other for years- if ever again, at any time in their lives. To fail would mean disaster, the loss of everything Mark and Henry had ever hoped for. Therefore, failure was not an option- as fucking clichéd as that was to say. It was simply not something Mark could allow to happen. He'd just have to get it done the first time, and get it done right- no other option existed. None at all.

Finally, Mark hung up, again promising his cousin he would be careful- and that they would see each other again before Christmas. Henry sounded tense, excited- he might not get much sleep tonight. He'd be much too busy wishing Mark good luck- and hoping, praying, that everything would work out like they'd planned. Henry was good at planning- it was one of the things he truly did well, far beyond anyone around him. But no plan was more important than this one, and this one absolutely vital plan he could not be personally involved in. He'd told Mark what he could, given him the best instructions and ideas possible. Hopefully, if Mark was smart- and he was- he would succeed and make it look like the whole thing had been a tragic accident, in no way a deliberate act of sabotage. And murder.

Mark went down to dinner at 5:30, while Henry, up in his room in Maine, put on the lower half of his white karate uniform and did sets of a dozen pushups bare-chested, hoping some exercise and a chance to admire his improving physique would distract him from how excited he was. Terrified, nervous, and thrilled beyond words. Henry was sure Mark was going to succeed- Mark was very smart, very clever. He'd understand what to do with the instructions Henry had given him. But there was nothing left to do now besides wait, and to do that Henry needed to exercise until he was too tired to do any more, and from there just go to bed and wait. Hopefully, Mark would figure something out tonight. His prayer for today would be that he and Mark would be set on the path to truly becoming brothers… starting tomorrow.

Sitting in the dining room with his father, dressed in a white polo shirt and jeans, Mark found he could do a surprisingly good job of acting normal. Calm, complacent- not at all what he really was underneath. Mark was seething with anger, thrumming with excitement- one wrong twitch and he felt like he might explode.

They were having chicken, mashed potatoes and refried beans tonight; Mark wasn't sure whether he hated refried beans or loved them, but they were around all the time. Jack Evans was quite a fan of the good old refried beans.

"Dad," Mark said as they sat down, "I'm sorry about Friday."

Jack looked at his son uncertainly, wanting to believe this but not quite sure what to think. "Are you sure, Mark? You seemed pretty angry just yesterday. You ran off and everything- that was scary for me."

"I know," Mark said quietly, controlling his reaction nicely and dropping his eyes to the table. "I just was really looking forward to Easter. That's all. When I heard we weren't going…" Mark sighed. "I don't know. I just got so mad."

"That you did," Jack said with a nod. "I don't blame you for that, Mark. Not really. All I'm asking is that you learn to control your reaction on these things. Don't get so mad at me when something comes up- remember we're on the same side here. I'm trying to help you. And I always will be."

"Thanks, Dad," Mark said, and he really looked like he meant it this time. Jack and Mark turned to their dinner, both of them having a much better and easier time of it than they'd expected. They talked easily, Mark speaking excitedly of Henry, Jake and Megan- the three big figures in his life now, it seemed. Jake, Mike and John had taken the place of Alan, Wesley and David, and Megan was Mark's girlfriend. Plain and simple. Henry, meanwhile, was making good progress on getting in shape and staying there, just as Mark so clearly was. He was also doing well in his karate classes, ranked a green belt just as Mark was.

Dinner took perhaps half an hour. Towards the end of it, Mark offered to help clean up the dishes once they were done, an offer made in just the same way he'd always done years ago. It was good old Mark, just as nice and well-meaning as you could ever ask for. After that was done, Mark thanked his father again for all he'd been doing, and told his father what he'd been thinking about a lot today.

"I was thinking about how much I love you and Mom," Mark said. "I don't want to lose you, too."

Jack looked at Mark, surprised and touched. They hugged briefly, and there was a gleam in Jack's eyes that might have been tears. Mark's eyes also gleamed with a seemingly-identical light, but to anyone who knew it was actually very, very different. Outwardly Mark appeared moved just as his father was, but actually he was holding back laughter.

_He really believes it_.

_The fuckin' phony_.

Mark went to bed early that night; he had his watch set for 11:30, the time when he'd head downstairs to the basement and get shit done. Mark knew he probably would not sleep much in the intervening time, but he had to try. A lot of heavy shit was getting ready to come down, and he had to rest up while he could. Mark began to do his usual routine of stripping for bed; he loved the way that the covers felt against his body, and it was just another way of reminding himself of how he'd triumphed over so many of his past weaknesses. Mark had once been ashamed of being naked, afraid- now he just found it to be another reminder of how much he had to be proud of.

Then Mark realised he was getting ready to set the damn house on fire. Wouldn't quite do to go outside naked- not if there weren't a lot of hot girls waiting to see him. Mark changed his routine for tonight; he would go to bed dressed.

But not too dressed. Mark soon realised he was not going to go outside in his initial choice- his old blue-gray pajamas, a favourite of his since he'd gotten them at age eleven. He could hardly go running outside in his new 'bed clothes' as there were none, but upon attempting to put them on found they were too tight. Mark was at first startled, then frustrated- and then he started to grin. The clothes he'd first chosen didn't fit anymore because Mark had grown too muscular in the past months. Through his awesome gains in physical strength alone, Mark had outgrown his old clothes.

What about the stuff Henry had got him? That might still work. Henry was always looking ahead- perhaps he'd anticipated that change in his cou-brother. Come to think of it, that seemed likely to be true- Mark remembered a lot of what Henry had given him had felt loose on the first try. Mark went to his closet- pausing as he so often did to admire himself in a mirror he had set up by his bed- and sifted through the clothes he had there, then to his dresser. Finally, he settled on a dark red t-shirt. Slipping it on after putting on a pair of boxer-briefs, Mark smiled as he realised the new clothes did indeed fit him just fine. They didn't feel so loose now.

Oddly enough, Mark conked right out when he went to bed at 8:30. Perhaps all that exercise had tired him out; perhaps the constant adrenaline high was wearing on him a bit also. Whatever the case, Mark fell asleep for the next few hours, surprising his father when he came upstairs to check on his son- Mark usually was up much later than that these days. Maybe Mark was tired out after Friday's events; it would certainly make sense of he was. Jack went to bed himself at 9:00, not even once guessing that his son was awaiting the beeping of his watch in the next room, and that his own son had decided that he had not even another day left to live.

Beep-beep! Beep-beep!

Mark sat up in bed, hurriedly reaching over and pressing a button on his watch to silence it. He had the strangest, most ridiculous fear that his father would hear the watch, and somehow through its sinister beeping discover his plan. Listening for a few moments, though, Mark heard nothing at all. The house was quiet.

Just as it should be.

Getting up and carefully moving out of his room, Mark crept down the hall barefoot. He moved silently, even making sure to breathe as quietly as possible. He slowed his pace even more as he neared Jack's room, but no unusual sounds could be heard from inside. Jack was asleep- just as he should have been.

Mark turned and carefully made his way downstairs. His heart pounded now, and his eyes were alive and bright with excitement. He was getting ready to kill for the first time. He was getting ready to set events in motion that would reunite him with Henry. After all, what other option was there? Jack and Wallace were the only two children of their generation, and the Evans family was not a very large clan in any case. Some surnames could lose a while nuclear family and flourish anyway for generations; the Evans family relied on only a few descendants each time to carry on the family name. Mark did not know this for a fact, but was certain that if his father had written any kind of a will- given any sort of instructions for "the unthinkable" at all, it was for Mark to be adopted by Wallace and Susan. It was the most logical choice if something were to happen to Jack, and was a likely outcome anyway. It was a chance Mark was plenty willing to take.

The problem with furnace fires was that they normally started in the winter. In the warmer months, they were obviously off more often than not- the only thing they were needed for then was hot water, and that didn't require as much constant running as heating the house did. Still, the furnace was in some way active year-round. All those pipes, all those wires; there was a good chance for something to go wrong there. Especially if some frayed wires had a few fluffy pieces of insulation fall from the walls down on them, and a blanket was lying nearby on the dryer…

Mark knew what he had to do. Henry had given him all the details he needed, really, and as he found a few tools, arranged the scene in the basement, and prepared to go to work, Mark realised Henry's instructions had been more than good enough. He made a note to thank Henry later.

Stripping the wires was the hardest part; Mark nearly electrocuted himself doing so. After a couple of good zaps, he went and found some rubber gloves and returned to his work. Then, there he was- standing there in the dark of the basement utility room, the rubber coating of a few copper wires nicely exposed for him to drop some insulation on. The brown paper that held it into the walls ran a little short at the top, and once in a while small bits of it would drift down to the concrete floor of the room. Never big puffs of it, but hey- accidents could happen. Just the same as that blanket lying on the top of the dryer could very well be left with some of it draped over the left side, well in reach of the wires if that pink insulation was to catch fire.

And so it did. Mark wanted to go get something to use as an accelerant- the gas can for the lawnmower, kerosene- but Henry had specifically warned against that. If the fire department guys picking through the wreckage suspected arson at all, real investigators would be called, and Mark's problems would take a big turn for the worse. So Mark sprinkled some insulation on the exposed wires- Henry assured him the evidence of that would be burned away when the whole thing caught fire- and stepped back. After just a moment, it made "zap" noise and caught, the pink fluffy stuff catching fire and burning nicely. The blanket, meanwhile, was meant to be flame-retardant- but it was never claimed to be flame-proof. It began to burn too, and Mark moved a set of towels on top of the dryer, making sure they were just inches from the wall- and all that wood, paper and insulation. Much of the house was stone on the outside, but its insides weren't. In there were plenty of things to burn with. Paint, paper, rugs, so many hundreds of feet of treated wood. Insulation, plaster- everything, all of it, able to burn.

Mark waited until he had a nice fire going in the basement before going anywhere. He briefly closed his eyes and tilted his head back, feeling the heat on his face and wishing he had a stick and a marshmallow. Then his senses returned as the fire blazed into life in front of him- it had found the basement wall. Mark darted out of the room and crept upstairs in a hurry. As he fled, he took a roll of string out of his pocket- light wool string, plenty capable of burning and never being found as evidence, but also quite good enough to trip a human being if used right. Mark stopped at the head of the stairs, working quickly, then left a few lines of string pulled taut across the top of the stairs and returned to his room. He briefly moved about in there, wondering if he should take anything. Could he? Certainly no more than a thing or two in his pockets; if anyone found Mark lugging all his junk out of the house before or after, that would look a little suspicious to say the least. By no means could any part of this look like Mark had been expecting it.

So Mark took just one thing. His wallet- which everybody knew he kept on him all the time anyway, and no more. Mark wished he could save something else- anything else. The Italian switchblade, for example. It would have to be consumed in the flames. What choice was there? If anyone- anybody at all- discovered the blade on him afterwards, Mark knew he'd have a lot of explaining to do. There just was nothing for it. Nothing at all.

Then Mark's eyes lit on the hand-carved, one-foot model of the _HMS Vanguard_, the pride of the modern-day Royal Navy and one of the world's finest ballistic missile submarines.

_Fuck 'em if they won't let me have that_, Mark thought bitterly, and placed the submarine on the rug, just inside the door. His father would pass right by it if he came in here, looking for Mark- and Mark would return for it once he knew his father wasn't getting out. He'd flee out his window and onto the roof- just like he'd done when he'd snuck out to kill Sean Walters' dog.

The fire must have found plenty to munch on down there in the basement, because before long Mark was sure he could smell traces of smoke drifting upstairs. The fire alarms should have been going off- but Jack, though well-meaning and diligent, was also at times forgetful. An alarm or two had mysteriously shorted out tonight- or perhaps its batteries just hadn't been replaced on time. The ones upstairs were working, but by the time they picked up what was going on it wouldn't matter for much longer.

Mark streaked out of his room and down the hall, taking care to keep his movements quiet. He hid in the hallway bathroom, just across from the stairs. The second-floor fire alarms would be going off any second now. Any second now… and from there the strings at the top of the stairs would soon do their work. And if they didn't? If, perhaps, the job needed one more finishing touch? Mark was all right with that. It was what karate was for.

_Beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep_!

The fire alarm in the second floor hallway commenced its unearthly screeching, quite good at its sole job of making itself impossible to ignore for any sleeping inhabitants of the house. Mark resisted the urge to cover his ears, instead concentrating for the sound of his father once the man was up and on his feet.

"What on _earth_?" Jack said, cursing and stumbling out into the hallway. Then he smelled the smoke, and sensed instantly that this was no minor problem. He couldn't imagine how it had started, and was bewildered none of the downstairs alarms were going off- but Jack knew right away this was real.

"Mark!" Jack yelled, hurrying down the hallway to the open door of his son's room. "MARK!"

Mark wasn't in his room. Why wasn't he in his room? Maybe he'd gone downstairs for a midnight snack… maybe he was still there! Trapped in the kitchen, too terrified to move as flames crept up from the basement- for that was likely where the fire had started.

Jack sprung into action, determined not to waste time questioning how and where this fire had begun- all that mattered now was that it had begun, and was going to kill Jack and his son very quickly if they didn't both get out, and get out fast. Jack sprinted down the hall, shouting Mark's name and praying for him to answer. He hurried towards the stairs, sure Mark was somewhere down there. He'd have answered by now if he was up here, after all- they had their disagreements sometimes, and more so lately than usual, but Mark had no reason to hide at a time like this.

Rushing towards the way down to the first floor, Jack ran right into the lines of string. They gave way and snapped under the force of Jack's momentum, but not before they tripped him up, just like Mark had intended. Jack never even saw the string, believing he'd simply made a mistake in his hurry to get downstairs. He tumbled down the stairs the hard way, landing painfully at the bottom, finding it was difficult to move. Had he broken something, maybe? There was a good chance that was what had happened. That was all he needed right now.

The front door! It was almost within reach.

"Mark!" Jack yelled, knowing he still had a chance of getting out. Maybe he could get to the front door and open it himself, or perhaps Mark could get out from wherever he was and open the door for him. Either way, there was still a chance for the both of them to live. Jack could not- would not- give up on that.

"Dad!" the cry came, and Jack was almost overcome with relief even as he noticed with shock how much smoke there was on the first floor, and caught sight of the growing flames down the hall.

Then Jack realised something was out of place here. That cry- it had come from _upstairs_! Mark had been upstairs the _whole time_!

Why hadn't he said anything? What did that even mean?

"Mark!" Jack yelled back, "I'm downstairs, near the front door! Come on!"

"Oh, I'm coming, Dad!" Mark sang, and Jack found that tone, that sound of almost mocking good cheer, to be beyond inappropriate. It was bizarre, almost _wrong_ how happy Mark sounded.

Why should Mark be _happy_, at a time like _this_?

After just a moment Mark's form appeared at the top of the stairs, and he bounded down them, darting towards Jack with such speed it looked like he was coming in-

-to attack?

Jack recognized it as Mark flew down the stairs, going into a flying leap as he reached the last four steps. It was one of Mark's karate moves. One he probably was not yet supposed to know, but had one way or another figured out regardless. Mark had an almost joyful expression of absolute focus and intent on his face; he knew what he was trying to do, and was happy because he was moments away from doing it.

"Christmas is coming early, Dad! At least for me!" Mark cried, not even caring about all the smoky air he was breathing into say that. He wasted barely a second or two saying that, then sprang off the steps, landing squarely on Jack's torso and slamming a flattened hand into his neck. The attack was meant to be a killing blow, and it did its job well; Mark banged his knees horribly on the landing but saw Jack wasn't going to have to worry about his knees or anything else, ever again. His eyes looked towards Mark, glassy and uncomprehending as marbles were.

_It's done, then_, Mark thought, then gagged and coughed as the smoke began to really reach him.

The damn house was burning up! But Mark had made his decision. He was not leaving that goddamn submarine behind. It was enough that he was leaving everything else he owned to burn; Mark was not about to hand over that hand-carved, beautifully-polished model submarine Henry had given him.

Forcing himself to his feet and ignoring the pain in his knees, Mark crouched low and sprinted back up the stairs. He threw himself into the bathroom, grabbing the wet towel and the one-foot model submarine, placing the towel over his mouth to shield himself from the smoke as he ran. Mark bolted down the hall and into his room, pausing just a moment to set both items down and force open the window in his room that looked over the backyard.

Mark got out onto the roof, leaving almost everything he owned behind. Tying the towel about his neck, Mark took hold of the submarine model and hurried across the roof to the tree that stood near it. It was maybe a ten, maybe twelve-foot drop from here. Mark didn't want to risk breaking one of his legs. He gripped the submarine's conning tower in his teeth and jumped for the tree, grabbing one of its upper branches in both hands and swinging down to a lower one, then dropping down to the ground.

The whole event had already pushed Mark's health towards its limits; he was grimy, sweaty, dirty and tired, and knew he'd inhaled more smoke than he should have. _Damn cigarettes_, Mark thought, and laughed crazily. _Fuck_ giving up the habit, though. He'd chain-smoke a pack a week and fight his way out of a burning house every month before doing _that_.

The fire was coming along very rapidly now, hungrily grasping for anything and everything that would light. Mark could see the neighbors coming out of their houses, and could hear the sound of fire engines racing down Falconbridge towards the neighborhood. He was exhausted, but forced himself to his feet. He had to continue, he had to make sure he got away. No point staying around to get killed- something that was still very possible, sitting here in the backyard.

They spotted him first, the Johnsons. They lived across the street and were the ones to call 911, Mr. Nick Johnson having noticed the glow of the flames from his kitchen window while up for a midnight glass of beer. Now he and his wife saw the twelve-year-old kid Mark Evans come wandering down the lawn towards them, appearing to not even notice the flames and smoke consuming the house behind him. He was dirty and wore a tired, haggard expression- and he was stubbornly clutching a model submarine of some kind in one hand. A strange thing to do, but people grabbed the oddest things when running out of a burning house. Mark had chosen to save his model submarine, apparently.

Mark Evans barely seemed to hear the cries of alarm from the neighbors around him, didn't respond to Mr. or Mrs. Johnson at all. Instead he crossed the street, sat down at the curb at the Johnson's lawn, and gazed over at the fire taking his house and everything in it.

"He'll be here," Mark said distantly, looking up at the Johnsons for a moment. "He'll _be_ here. He'll make it, he _has_ to."

After a few moments Mr. and Mrs. Johnson realised Mark meant his father.

Jack Evans didn't show up, though. Only more flames did, and as quickly as the fire trucks arrived, by the time they got there and started getting the whole mess under control, the house was a total loss.

Watching the whole scene, Mark was briefly forgotten by most as the firefighters battled the flames and the two next-door neighbors were evacuated from their own houses just in case. He breathed only with effort, coughing now and again as he fought to once again clear his lungs. He was tired, and knew he wouldn't sleep at all for a while yet tonight. He could hear the elder Johnsons urging him to get up, assuring him that he could wait for his father with them, that they would get him water and let the firefighters know he was here. Mark thought this was all well and good, and he allowed himself to be led away, remembering that soon it would be time to put his head in his hands and bawl. He was good at that. But as he headed across the Johnsons' lawn and towards the safety of their house, Mark looked back was just a moment and smiled.


	16. Chapter 16- Means & Ends

**Chapter XVI- Means & Ends**

* * *

Wallace and Susan flew to Phoenix, Arizona just a few days before Easter. They'd gotten the call early in the morning on March 22nd, receiving the devastating news about the fire, and how lucky Mark had been to get out. Jack hadn't been so fortunate, and an inconsolable Mark was now at a local hospital, staying there while he tried to figure out what he was supposed to do from here. He'd lost both his parents.

When he'd heard the news, Henry had not slept more than a single hour each night until they flew out to Arizona. He had not laughed, he had not cried. Henry had just stared at things- the wall, the floor, his parents when they spoke to him. It was shock, a reaction in many ways similar to Mark's. When he wasn't crying or sleeping, Mark was absolutely silent, staring at nothing at all no matter where he looked. Henry was only responsive about one thing- his demand to go with his parents to Arizona. Once that was agreed on, and the fact that Mark was alive and okay confirmed, Henry calmed down a bit. But the day before the flight, he barely slept at all. Wallace and Susan could tell because once they were on the flight, Henry went face-down in a bag of airline peanuts. He fell asleep for the rest of the three-hour flight, his face looking worn and tired- nothing like the lively, resilient kid he normally was. He kind of looked like hell- and it only made Susan and Wallace worry more. If this was how Henry looked, wasting away with worry over the death and near-death in the family… how could Mark be looking anything besides worse?

Connie had wanted to go, too- she'd been distressed in the extreme over losing her Uncle Jack, and Mark's narrow escape was hardly any better. It had been Henry who told her; sitting at his desk staring at the wall for two hours straight, Henry had spoken the news when Connie showed up at his doorway. She didn't much like her older brother, and had the distinct impression he wasn't too fond of her. But even so, Connie sensed something was bothering Henry very much. He didn't just stare at the wall for no particular reason, and looked like he hadn't slept in a day. So Connie had asked what was wrong. Henry just said bluntly, "You know Uncle Jack? He's dead. Mark's not."

Henry's bluntness hadn't been all bad, in a way- it had spared his parents the trouble of trying to figure out how best to explain this to Connie. It would not have been easy; not by any stretch of the imagination. In a way Wallace and Susan were grateful to Henry for his blunt way of dealing with death; he cut himself off from his emotions, functioning on the absolute minimum of things. At least Henry could keep going, better than most.

But the option of Connie going had been ruled out from the outset. She had always liked Uncle Jack a great deal, but the flight was booked very last-minute, and Wallace was lucky to get even three seats on the same flight like he did. Connie stayed with Alice Davenport while her brother and parents went to Arizona, with the promise that she would get to see Mark just as soon as they got back. It had been a given that Mark would be taken in by Jack's brother and sister-in-law if anything happened to him; those arrangements had been made years ago between the two brothers. Jack had been so lucky for so many years, done so well- and it had all suddenly come to an end. Wallace just didn't understand it.

And of course there was Mark. The latest word Wallace had gotten when he got on the flight to go out to Arizona was that Mark was now refusing to eat; the hospital staff were debating over what to do about that, but said that Mark looked like he might get violent if they tried to force-feed him. That might not go well, and trying that wouldn't be good right now anyway, given how sensitive his throat and lungs were from the fire. There was no serious damage, not as far as anyone could tell- but anything that would strain his lungs or throat would be a bad idea right now.

Bringing Henry turned out to be a better idea than anyone could have imagined. When the two boys were reunited just a day before Easter, both had looked like death warmed over. Gaunt faces, haggard expressions, dark circles under their eyes. They both looked like they'd been through hell. But when Henry caught sight of his cousin, his features lit up again for the first time in days, and so did Mark's. They rushed to each other in Mark's room in the hospital, hugging each other tightly and crying into each other's shoulders. Scared like they'd never been in their lives, both boys sobbed out their relief. He's all right, they both thought. At least he's all right.

Everyone watching was grateful to see Mark come back to himself a bit. He was still pale and tired-looking, sleeping poorly and completely disoriented most of the time. Mark seemed to be having trouble remembering even where his room had been in the house, and he could offer next to nothing about what had happened. He'd just blanked out on the whole thing, it seemed like, and nobody was willing to push Mark on it. He'd been through a lot.

The one thing that did seem to help was Henry. He was by Mark's side constantly after his arrival, doing whatever Mark needed done and constantly busying himself around the hospital on errands. His politeness and concern for his cousin impressed many on the staff working that floor, and Henry was well-known by the nurses and doctors dealing with Mark in his last two days there. Henry would not leave until he had to at the end of the day, and even then, back at the hotel room his parents had gotten, Henry would not go to sleep unless he was told Mark had. While visiting, he wouldn't eat unless Mark had started eating, and once or twice was suspected of simply handing his food over to Mark anyway. Henry's devotion to his cousin was touching, especially for Susan; she had never imagined just how much her boy cared. Mark was the one known for being caring and emotional, but clearly Henry could be that way if he wanted to. Perhaps he just wasn't especially good at showing it.

Mark left the hospital the day after Easter, and Wallace got a two-bedroom room at the hotel so the two boys could share a room. Mark remained subdued for all his first day out; he said next to nothing and only really got up to eat and go to the bathroom, then just went back and slept some more. The funeral was on the second day in April, and Wallace was busy making the arrangements. It pained him greatly, but he knew there was no choice but to do it. Jack would have done the same for him.

Then came the funeral itself. On April 2nd, 1994, the Evans family and an assortment of neighbors, employees, associates and friends said goodbye to Jack Evans. He was buried on the same reddish-orange hillside as his wife, on that barren cemetery grounds overlooking the open miles of desert.

Many people came on that day in April, more than Wallace had expected. He was deeply saddened at losing his brother, and could hardly bear to think of what a tragedy it was, losing Janice and Jack in so short a time. They had been good, wonderful people, generous and considerate of others in a way that really was remarkable in the present times. Some families and some people seemed able to navigate the ages with relative ease, their honor whole and their values intact. They remained pillars of decency and strength in a time when such people were becoming all too rare indeed. And Mark, the son of two such people, was one of the nicest, most good-natured kids Wallace or Susan had ever met. It just made no sense that of all the people who had to go before their time, Jack and Janice should be the ones. Mark's parents were gone now, and he was clearly devastated. That was about as close or as accurate a word as Wallace could find; nothing else seemed to fit.

Mark and Henry looked quite handsome in their black suits, identically made and tailored by a friend of Jack's for the occasion. He told Wallace he would accept no charge on this one- for Jack and his family, this was on the house. The two boys were inseparable from the day they reunited at the hospital, almost never leaving each other's side. During the funeral they both did a remarkable job of imitating the men around them- stoic and upright, they made their faces masks that concealed the grief they really felt.

The women were allowed to cry- that was all right. But some unspoken tradition mandated that the men could not. Not now, at least- they were the leaders, the decision makers- they had to be strong. Wallace, observing the boys throughout the funeral, figured they were each making a real effort to hold up under everything that was going on. They had to be strong, needed to be- not so much for the adults around them as for each other. Henry was making himself hold up and keep going because Mark needed him, and Mark was doing his best to carry on because Henry needed him. They needed each other. Wallace, and Susan, resolved to give the boys their space during the event, both found themselves thankful for the close friendship Mark and Henry had so clearly established. Now, more than ever, strong bonds like that were needed to keep the Evans family going- and Mark needed friends like Henry more than ever before in his life.

"Mark has Henry," Wallace and his wife heard more than once, as people came to give their condolences and best wishes for Mark. "At least Mark has Henry. You have that to be thankful for."

Mark didn't cry at the funeral, and he did none of that during the day before either. He just remained silent, and when he wasn't quietly sitting in some corner he was sleeping. He was sleeping too damn much lately, and Wallace was starting to worry about it. Mark showed some signs of life, of some possibility that he might overcome even this and move on… but only when Henry talked to him. With everybody else he was in a daze. He didn't seem to know what to think about anything, or if anything he was seeing or hearing was even real.

Susan spoke with Mark briefly at the funeral; he kept looking over at his father's coffin, then looking away and shuddering. But he kept looking back. He managed to concentrate enough on Susan to ask her what was going to happen next. "What am I gonna do now?" Mark asked, in a voice that said he was quite frightened at having no idea. He was lost in the world now; adrift without any parents left. "What am I gonna do now?" He said it again, amazed at how frightening it was to think about. The reality he was faced with now wasn't a pleasant thing. All through his life, even when he'd lost his mother, Mark had some idea of what was going to come next.

But Susan had an answer for that, even if she couldn't answer anything else. Kneeling to give Mark a hug, she looked him right in the eyes. "Mark," she said quietly, "You'll be coming back to Maine with us. Your dad made sure that if anything happened to him, we could step in and take care of you." She paused, unsure what to make of that odd, unreadable expression in his eyes. "You'll be all right, Mark," Susan said. "We'll take care of you."

Mark regarded Susan in silence for a few moments, then embraced her tightly, shutting his eyes against the tears forcing their way forward again. "Thanks, Aunt Susan," Mark said quietly. "Thank you so much."

The funeral ceremony itself began, and Mark stood in silence all the while as the priest talked, and the black wood casket was lowered into the freshly-dug grave. Henry was as always by his side, but had nothing to say. He merely watched and waited, patiently observing everything and everyone around him. Of course, he paid close attention to how everyone had reacted to the news, the way that people were talking about the fire. No one- not anybody- suspected the fire had been started by a human being. It was an accident; an electrical fire of some kind had started in the basement and spread from there. The whole thing was an accident- tragic, and unforeseeable. No boy had played any part in creating it. None whatsoever.

Henry was also interested in Mark. He stood by his cousin every day since they were reunited not just for public appearances- he wanted to play every role he could in making sure Mark was regarded as the sympathetic victim in all this- but also as a gesture of real devotion. Henry felt so close to Mark now it was like words, for them, had become obsolete. They understood each other so well, gestures and smiles or frowns could convey a whole conversation's worth of meaning. Mark was doing beautifully well- Henry knew it. He knew because when they'd been alone in an empty room of the funeral home during the wake, Mark had turned to Henry and turned the blonde to face him, a Cheshire-cat-like grin on his face. Quietly, Mark had whispered, "We did it," and the two boys had embraced, hugging each other tightly. This was the happiest day of their lives- but they had no choice but to behave that it was actually the opposite.

The crowd began drifting away, and Henry soon left with his parents to leave Mark alone for a little while. He stood over the open grave, gazing silently down at the black coffin. The wind blew in across the desert and pushed lightly at him now and then, but Mark didn't notice. Finally, once everyone had withdrawn to the cars or begun to leave, the boy with the auburn hair gazed down at the coffin with a tense, emotional look on his face. Was it anger, or was it sadness? Anyone who could have seen Mark's face would have found it quite impossible to tell. Mark gazed down solemnly. He had no words to say.

After a few moments, he found one. Not a word or sentence of farewell, but a final goodbye all the same.

Mark carefully spat down on the coffin and turned around, walking back towards Wallace's rented Eagle sedan and his waiting family- his new family- without so much as a backwards glance.

Taking care of the last will & testament of Jack Evans and dealing with his various properties and loose ends would take a little time. The essentials, though, were done by the time Wallace prepared to take his family- including his nephew, whom he was now adopting as his own son on his brother's behalf- back to Maine. Wallace hated to admit it, but dispensing with what his brother had owned and settling his affairs was admittedly much easier with so much of it having burned up in the fire. It was a terrible thing to think, but in a way Wallace was grateful. At the very least, he was spared having to make a lengthy affair of this. He was able to set his brother's affairs to rest- and set Jack to rest- and just be done with it. Anything that would make that process quicker, Wallace was grateful for. No matter what it was.

Mark and Henry continued to be supportive of each other as they prepared for the flight home; both wore black armbands on the trip home as symbols of mourning. Outwardly they were slowly picking up the pieces, struggling to reorient themselves and find a way to move on. Underneath, though, the boys were ecstatic. They wanted to jump for joy, so happy they didn't know what to do with themselves. They'd gotten what they wanted. They were brothers now- brothers until the end.

When Mark Evans flew home with his new family on April 4th, 1994, he carried with him one suitcase- one suitcase, carrying all he owned. He'd managed to say goodbye to some of his buddies before going, and Jake Schwarz promised to give that sissy Alan Parks a good sucker-punch for Mark before the end of the year. Mark wished for the time to stop by Megan's house and pay her a visit for a while- Maybe a whole night if she's up for it, he thought with a smile- but it just wasn't possible. He called her and said his goodbyes, like he did with the rest of his friends. The flight home took some three hours, but Mark passed the time easily enough, napping beside Henry on the plane.

Mark was wearing his jeans and white polo when he got off the plane at the Portland airport. Henry was in a dark blue sweater and khakis- he seemed rather fond of that combination- and had brought a replacement tan winter coat, fur-lined, to replace the one he'd lost in the fire.

The ride home was quiet and subdued, nobody saying much. Mark began to ask about things like resuming karate classes, now in the class Henry was a part of, and also about perhaps resuming school before the fall. It would be a challenge to arrange so many things in so short a time, but neither Susan nor Wallace objected. They understood; Mark was attempting to reorient himself by restoring what things he could to their normal presence in his life. He'd been doing karate, playing soccer and going to school before- one way he could start making sense of things again was to begin doing those things again, now.

When they got home, it was a mild day; cold, still, but noticeably the beginning of spring. The bitter edge of winter was slowly fading, and Mark didn't need any gloves or hat. Just the tan winter coat Henry had given him, the same kind as the blonde was wearing himself. When they pulled into the driveway, Mark gazed up at the big, impressive white house, with its three floors and a basement and plenty of extra rooms and bedrooms. He was going to be staying in Henry's room for right now, but he and Henry had already discussed hatching a proposal that Mark move into Richard's room before long. Maybe not this week, or next month- but within the next year or so. And it would likely happen. The years were steadily passing since the loss of Richard, and now another boy was present to liven up the house. Wallace's feeling that the room was turning into a museum would surely take hold for Susan, too- or at least, she'd soon have little choice but to repurpose the room as Mark's own, and move on.

But that was for later. So was Mark returning to school, resuming his karate classes, and accompanying Henry's team to their practices and so many other things. All that would be happening soon, but not today. That was for tomorrow, for later. Mark would concern himself with those things soon enough.

The two boys hopped eagerly out of the car, gazing up at the house and then bounding towards it, sprinting forward and playfully shoving at each other as they dashed through the slowly-melting snow. Wallace and Susan were a bit surprised to see the two of them laughing and playing like this, but found no reason to complain. Susan was struck by the sight of the two boys bounding up the steps of their house, looking almost exactly alike from behind. They were truly inseparable, those two. Susan had never seen two boys become such good friends so quickly- not in all her life.

But it was a good thing that this was happening; a very good thing, indeed. Wallace and Susan let Henry and Mark into the house, helping Mark get settled back into Henry's room before heading out to go pick up Connie.

Henry watched their car head away down the street, gazing down from the upstairs hallway window that overlooked the front yard. He returned to his room after a few moments, going into his dresser and plucking out the brand-new gold-plated Zippo lighter and fresh pack of Virginia-made cigarettes he'd been saving just for Mark. Turning around and handing them to the auburn-haired boy with a smile on his face, Henry said, "Welcome home, Mark. We're brothers."

The two boys hugged fiercely for a moment, Mark grinning and managing to force out, "Good to be here. Brother."

Then they separated, and Henry grinned as he gestured at the pack of cigarettes. "Come on," he said, starting to head down the hall towards the bathroom. "Let's go fuck up our lungs some more." Mark laughed and followed him, and within a minute they had the bathroom door closed and the fan on.

_I could get used to this_, Mark thought with a smile. _I think I like this just fine_.


	17. Chapter 17- New Beginnings

**Chapter XVII- New Beginnings**

* * *

The changes in the Evans household became evident right away. Mark and Henry were soon back to their old selves, laughing and play-fighting constantly like a pair of tiger cubs. They were the best of friends, and ceased referring to each other as cousins the day Mark returned to Maine. From that day on they were brothers, and would always refer to one another as such. Wallace and Susan talked about this in private once or twice. Were they embracing this new life too quickly- were they, perhaps, forgetting about Jack a little too soon?

But that worry didn't last long for either of the Evans parents. Mark needed to live on, to take advantage of the life he had instead of focusing on his own near-death. There wasn't anything wrong with him making such impressive progress as this- nothing at all. It meant there was hope for Mark, and Wallace and Susan both agreed that few things ever to be found in the world were quite so beautiful as hope.

Connie was delighted to see Mark return to the household, cheerfully welcoming him when she learned he was going to stay. Henry's previous shortness with Connie slowly vanished, and while he didn't suddenly strike up a friendship with his sister, Henry did leave her alone much more frequently. This only endeared Connie to Mark as her new brother more; she rightly attributed her older brother's better mood to the presence of her second big brother. Connie never entered Henry's room anymore, though, even with Mark present- her new brother was now supportive of her old one's policy. The kid sister was never, ever allowed in Henry's room- she was to stop at the doorway and go no farther than that.

Mark and Henry soon were together clamoring for a set of weights, and before long were together working out in their room after school, almost every day. After some extended talks with the head of Henry's junior high school, Mark returned to classes starting his second week back. He and Henry were in the principal's office that Thursday; apparently a few boys had decided to try razzing the new kid, and together Henry and Mark had reacted in a very unfavorable manner. They both promised to stay out of such trouble in the future, though, and in any case the point was made.

One area where the Evans brothers truly excelled from the start was in karate class. The sensei, Mr. Kenji, was amazed at how in tune the two clearly were; when they sparred other boys they always seemed a move ahead, and were some of the strongest boys in the class. When they sparred each other, they fought more fiercely than any of the other boys ever did, but only seemed to enjoy the competition.

During Mark's second week in Maine, Henry confided during class that he had been hoping, wishing for a chance to get away with a full-contact attack. The sensei wouldn't allow it, he said, and Henry just wanted to show these dorks what he could really do. Just for once.

So Mark and Henry talked about it, and before long they came up with a plan. During the Thursday class after school, Henry as usual volunteered to spar with one of the boys. It was the lean, athletically-built John LaFleur, the dark-brown-haired kid from Henry's school soccer team. He was a midfielder alongside Henry, and one of the only boys who had the courage to routinely face Henry on the mat during karate classes.

Mr. Kenji was normally quite an attentive man, able to keep watch over all the goings-on in his dojo during a given class, but Mark Evans was one of the most talented students he'd seen in years. He kept asking questions Thursday afternoon, and each of them turned out to be one that was not only interesting to Mark, but also to the other boys in the class. Mark was making a good impression, it seemed; he was casual and outgoing, playing on his new-kid-in-town image and making the most of it. The boys in the class liked him, but were fighting to hide their astonishment that he was the brother of someone as odd as Henry.

So it was quite a surprise to Mr. Kenji during class that day when he was busy answering questions and he heard an abrupt, sharp smack- John LaFleur flew clear off the mat he'd been standing on and over to the next, gasping hard and struggling to sit up. Henry had his fists raised and just finished lowering one foot to the floor when Mr. Kenji turned; he'd taken the momentary distraction of the sensei and the class to kick Johnny LaFleur just as hard as he could.

"Hey!" Kenji barked, rushing over to the two boys. "What's going on here? Did I say you could use a full-contact kick, Mr. Evans?"

"No, sensei," Henry answered promptly. "He said I could," the blonde added, nodding to Johnny, who was lying on the mat and recovering his breath.

Mr. Kenji looked over at Johnny LaFleur, watching intently and making sure he was able to sit up. The boy with the brown-black hair looked up, but not at Mr. Kenji. He had his eyes locked with Henry's. The blonde gazed at him intently, his eyes a warning. Go along with it, Henry's eyes said. Just go with what I said.

So John nodded. "I wanted to see what it was like," he said simply. "It's all right, sir."

He wasn't about to contradict somebody who'd kicked him that hard; he felt ready to barf his guts up. How was Henry this good? John was one of the best boys in the class, but Henry was always in the lead. He was faster, stronger, and just plain better. He might not have realised it, but Henry was the envy of every boy in the class. They all wanted to be as good as he was- but none could understand why he was such a callous jerk. Try to ask him for anything, ask him to help you learn what he knew, he'd tell you to get fucked. What could you do but ostracize somebody like that?

Henry enjoyed the opportunity to land a full-contact blow for the first time in his life, but Mark talked to him about it when they got home. Henry did well in karate, did well in soccer, was good-looking, in great shape, and dressed well. How, with all that in mind, wasn't he the most popular kid in school? What was stopping him?

"I don't know," Henry said, shrugging as he picked up a pair of fifteen-pound weights and began lifting them, working on the strength of his arms. "I hate those dorks."

Mark understood that flat, dismissive attitude; Henry felt the kids around him at school were less than he was. Therefore, he ignored them- that or push them around, not even bothering to hide his contempt. Mark didn't see the guys he'd gone to school with in Arizona any differently, but the difference was that he understood you couldn't hold yourself completely aloof, as Henry was doing. Not if you wanted to be hot shit in high school.

"I do too, man," Mark said as he lifted a couple of dumbbells himself. "But you gotta play the game."

Henry paused, looking at Mark uncertainly. "What game?"

"_The_ game," Mark repeated, his face taking on a sly smile. He grunted as he worked through the repetitions; he was doing just a few more every week. Twenty was his average for every exercise- twenty each time. And he would sometimes revisit a given exercise during a workout, with the result that he would ultimately do forty or sixty pushups in total. It took effort, real effort- but he could do it. From the look of his upper body, Henry's zeal for physical exercise was no less sincere. He had ambitions of popularity himself, all right- as well as having an obvious interest in the many other benefits that came with being in shape. Being able to intimidate kids much more effectively most of the time, beating them up if they fought back some of the time- there was no shortage of benefits to being in shape for boys like Mark and Henry.

"All right, jerkoff," Henry said with mocking courtesy, "What's this game? Henry likes games."

"Well," Mark said, setting down his weights and beginning a set of sit-ups, "You know how you put a mask on, right? Talking to adults?"

"Keep your voice down, man," Henry grunted, loving the bittersweet pain that came with pushing his muscles to their limits. He loved that feeling of soreness that often followed the next day- it meant he'd done a good workout, and would be that much stronger once the soreness had faded.

"You know what I mean, though," Mark insisted. "Right?"

"Yeah, yeah," Henry said. "So what about that? Those idiots I-" he paused, smiled a little. "Those idiots we go to school with aren't adults. They're kids."

"But so are we," Mark said, and when Henry visibly bristled at that, Mark added, "As far as they're concerned." He paused. "You wanna be cool, don't you? One of those guys all the girls wanna, you know-"

"Fuck," Henry said simply. "We can say fuck, Mark. We're both guys here."

"Well, I know _I_ am," Mark smirked.

"Whatever," Henry laughed, shaking his head and setting his weights down. Sitting down on his bed and looking over at Mark, he laughed again. It was getting close to bedtime; Henry walked over to the door and closed it most of the way. Wallace wouldn't permit the boys or Connie to sleep with their door shut, but it could be almost shut. That was fine, apparently, and Henry wanted to do the best he could to ensure there wouldn't be any unwanted listeners. There never were anyway; Connie knew better than to eavesdrop on either Mark or Henry, and Wallace and Susan trusted their son- sons- too much to bother.

Henry and Mark matter-of-factly stripped and folded their clothes by the dresser, neatly and properly as usual. The process of doing this in front of the other didn't bother either Mark or Henry now; it wasn't like they were checking each other out. They were mature enough not to make some kind of a big deal about it.

Lying in his bed with the covers pulled up over his waist- quite narcissistic these days, Mark loved admiring the strong, fit shape his body was coming to have- Mark looked over at his brother Henry, who was doing about the same. Still sleeping near the window, with that cold night air seeping in from the outside- but like before, it didn't bother Henry a bit. Mark decided now was a good time to continue what he'd been saying.

"Henry," Mark said, looking over at the blonde in the dark.

"Yeah?"

"You gotta play the game, man," Mark said seriously. "You _can't_ go around threatening to cut off kids' _balls_ anymore. That ain't cool, man."

Henry made a face, then laughed. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mark. I forgot you gave a shit."

"I don't," Mark emphasized. "But people don't like that. _Really_ don't like it. Even rumors about it are bad."

"So what?" Henry laughed. "It was _funny_."

Henry wasn't getting it. "I'm being serious," Mark said. "You wanna be Creepy Henry all through high school?"

Even in the dark of the room, Mark could see Henry blush. He'd mentioned his childhood nickname before, and confessed his desire to one day be rid of it. The sooner the better, with eighth grade coming up next year and high school after that.

"What- no!" Henry said, surprised. "No, I wanna be hot _shit_ in high school, man. I wanna have _fun_."

"Then you've gotta be cool, man," Mark said. "You gotta play the game. You don't have to actually _give_ a shit about any of these guys. Just do what we do with the grown-ups. _Act_ like you care what they think."

Henry was silent for a few moments, obviously considering that. "Okay," he said, and all traces of humor were gone from his voice. Instead, there was just solemn thoughtfulness, and perhaps also a measure of respect. Henry was listening now. Mark, then, knew he had to take advantage of that. He needed to tutor Henry on this- for both their benefit.

"So," Mark said, "Look at what _I_ do. I say 'what's up' to the guys on the team, the cool kids and all of them. Slap hands, high-five- whatever. Play around with the guys on the team. Fuck around in the locker room, play-fight like you do with me. That sort of thing."

"Well," Henry said, "Yeah. I guess that makes sense. So I'm just _acting_ like I care what they have to say?"

"Exactly."

"You should come to me with practice, Mark," Henry said suddenly. "I'm one of the best guys on the team and everybody knows it. I just don't hang out with 'em."

"You should," Mark said. "Make some friends. Do any guys at your school smoke?"

Henry laughed. "Some. Most are fucking posers, though. Just trying to impress people."

Mark snorted in contempt of such kids as that. Too many teenage boys he knew just smoked once or twice to impress somebody, or in an effort to be popular. He had no time for them. Some boys really did do it for fun, though; because they liked the feel of the nicotine in their system and just plain enjoyed breaking the rules.

"Some do it for fun, right? Some of the cool kids do it?"

"Yeah," Henry said with a shrug.

"So share your cigarettes with them sometime," Mark said. "Offer the guys on the soccer team a couple of cigarettes after practice or a game."

Henry was silent again, clearly thinking about what Mark was saying. "I want you to help me," he said seriously. "I need your help here, Mark. A lot of the popular kids still think I'm Creepy Henry."

"We'll fix that," Mark said solemnly. "I'll help you, I promise. Some of the kids at school already think I'm cool. They like me."

Henry grunted in reluctant acknowledgement; his chagrin over his lack of popularity was not at all helped by the fact that Mark had arrived at school just this week and was already making a decent-sized splash in the social pool.

"Well, they _do_, don't they?" Mark asked gently.

"Yeah," Henry said.

"Well," Mark said simply, "I'm gonna make friends, and you'll move up with me. I'll make sure you do, and you'll learn. We'll do it together."

"All right," Henry said, sounding like he wanted to believe Mark but was reluctant to risk it.

"Listen," Mark said quietly. "You're my brother, Henry. Just repeat after me."

Henry was silent. Listening.

"I am Henry."

"I am Henry," the blonde repeated.

"I will be a fucking badass," Mark said.

"I will be a fucking badass," Henry repeated, laughing a little at Mark's choice of words. He still had a hard time believing how often he heard Mark swear these days.

Mark just grinned up at the ceiling, happy and content like he'd never been in his years. Good times lay ahead; he was sure of it. So what if Henry wasn't such a cool kid right now? He had all the makeup to be one.

He was good-looking, strong, a gifted athlete. Henry was a rich kid with good looks and steadily-growing muscles- what else did he need to worry about? And Mark knew of an especially good counter to almost every pitfall that might be found on the way to redeeming Henry's reputation. If one of the cool kids called him "Creepy Henry," Henry could just retort with a decidedly unflattering rumor about them. Everybody had embarrassing moments or secrets. And some didn't even need to be real. Between guys, for example, Mark understood suggesting that a given boy had a tiny penis was always a great insult or comeback. It set him on the defensive, and would hit especially hard if it was at all true.

And Henry _was_ a great soccer player- it was something Henry often talked about, and he had no reason to lie to Mark. All Henry needed to do, really, was just be one of the guys. He needed to start being a team player for real- not just using his abilities for his own glory, but making it something that benefited the whole team. If he began to do that, started treating his teammates like buddies and having Mark do the same alongside him- how could the guys and girls at school _not_ change their opinion of him, given a little time?

"Henry," Mark said with a smile on his face, "Together, we're gonna change the world, man."

Henry didn't say anything. He just smiled.


	18. Chapter 18- The Closed Circle

**Chapter XVIII- The Closed Circle**

* * *

It was a cool day out, Mark's second Saturday in Maine. It wasn't nearly as bad as he remembered December as being, but plenty cold enough. Both boys wore their tan coats, leather gloves- tan for Henry, black for Mark- and wool caps. But that was all really just for appearances; neither one of them much noticed the cold, or cared. They made the necessary excuses before noon and headed out just after lunch; both Mark and Henry wanted a whole afternoon to themselves before they needed to be back in time for dinner. They briefly stopped by the old cemetery on the hill, going by the well and laughing as they remembered how spooked Mark had been when Henry had shot the dog.

"You were such a _dork_ then, man," Henry laughed. "Glad you managed to man up."

Mark laughed along with Henry, but shook his head in disbelief; Mark could hardly believe he'd once been so timid as he had been last December. "Yeah," Mark said. "Me, too."

Henry gave him a look as they stood beside the well. "How do you feel about it now?"

The auburn-haired boy just shrugged. "It was just a dog."

The blonde smiled; he was very pleased. "Good answer, Mark," Henry said. Reaching inside the well and pulling out a tin box from one of the missing bricks, Henry opened it up to reveal two packs of cigarettes and a lighter- the very same, in fact, from several months ago.

Henry promptly opened one pack and plucked out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a deep drag. "Go on," Henry said, certain Mark would remember this moment from last December. And sure enough, the auburn-haired boy put on a look of unease, looking hesitantly at the lit cigarette. "They give you cancer."

Henry shrugged, enjoying the moment immensely but remembering to keep with the reenactment. "So what?" Henry said, "You're gonna die anyway."

"Yeah," Mark said, dropping the act and plucking the cigarette from Henry's fingers. "But not before somebody _else_ does."

He took a deep drag on the cigarette as Henry lit another for himself. Mark held in the smoke for a moment, then exhaled, breathing it out into the wind. Henry did the same, and for a few minutes the two boys smoked their cigarettes in silence, remembering all the events and changes of the months since December 1993, and feeling a sense of real gratitude that things had worked out so well. It had taken a lot of patience, a lot of planning and hard work- but things had come right in the end. Well, right for Henry and his brother Mark- and who else mattered but them?

Finally, Henry tossed his cigarette down into the well; just like last time, Mark could neither see nor hear it when it hit the water down below. "Come on, Mark," Henry said, putting away the tinned box and starting off for the road again. "We got places to go."

Mark tossed his cigarette down into the well too; he felt so damn cool when he had one of those, but knew it was time to get going. Time with Henry around was never wasted.

As they commenced the long walk across town, heading for the hills and within them Fleetwood Hall, Mark found he was actually looking forward to this. He could distantly remember what it had been like last time he was here, listening to Henry talk about that creepy old mansion and the truly bizarre history it had experienced. His feeling about going all this way to see the place, let alone go inside it, had not been a particularly good one. Overall, back then Mark had felt like he was doing it against his better judgment.

But now? Mark wanted to hurry up and get there. He wanted to see this old house again; it was just so fascinating to think about talk about. A vast, unimaginably expensive mansion, unchanged by time and untouched by whoever it was happened to own it these days. It sounded like something out of a fairytale; if the Wicked Witch of the West or the Queen of the Snow White story could have designed a mansion at the start of the 20th century, it would have looked very much like Fleetwood Hall.

Henry and Mark talked easily as they made their way along the side of various roads, scurrying up over the side of big drifts of snow thrown aside by the plows as larger trucks passed from time to time. Mark told Henry all about his many exploits in Arizona over the past few months; Henry could only be impressed as he listened to his cousin retell so many stories and happenings, as if for the first time. And it was, in a way- hearing these tales from Mark firsthand was somehow very different from hearing them over the phone. It made sense; friendship by correspondence was simply not possible. You had to invest real time, real effort in it- and most importantly, you just needed to see the person once in a while. Even the best of friendships tended to fade without that.

The blonde-haired of the two Evans brothers laughed a little as Mark retold his win in a fistfight against Sean Walters, and then later against Alan Parks. Hearing the way Mark had beaten Alan up and then taken his lunch money- the classic move of any schoolyard bully- Henry just chuckled.

"What? What's so funny?" Mark asked, curious. He giggled a little himself, though; remembering how he'd made both of those sissies crawl and cry like girls was pretty funny.

"_You_, dork," Henry smirked, affectionately shoving his brother into a snowbank. Mark yelped in surprise and toppled over, then jumped up and snatched Henry's lighter out of his coat pocket. This was Henry's _nice_ lighter, the one he carried with him just about everywhere.

"My Zippo!" Henry wailed, acting like a boy in great distress.

Mark chuckled, acting like he was going to throw the lighter- opened- into a snowbank and ruin it. But instead, glaring at a motorist or two who was giving them some strange looks as they drove by, Mark snapped the gold-plated lighter shut and tossed it back to Henry. "Come on," he said, "What was funny just then?"

As they resumed walking, Henry just shrugged a little. "Hey, I just don't get it, man. You tell me it's not kosher to threaten to remove some dork's special parts once in a while- and then go around beating guys up like it's nothing. How's that make sense, dude?"

"It makes sense," Mark said, "because Sean Walters was a bully and he's fair game. And Alan Parks is a _loser_. Also fair game. But you can't go holding a knife to his balls and threatening to cut 'em off. I mean, come on, man. That's going a little far."

Henry laughed. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Mark tried to glare at his friend and brother for a few moments, having noticed the almost mocking tone of voice Henry spoke those words in. Mark knew what his brother was referring to; his own killing of his brother Richard, and to Mark's equally cold-blooded act in removing his father from the picture so the brothers could be together again. But before long Mark gave up trying to be mad at Henry. He just couldn't seem to do it.

"Just don't do something like that unless you're gonna kill him afterwards," Mark advised. "And then you just make him disappear, or say it was an accident. Whatever."

"Accidents happen," Henry said, nodding, then at the same time the two boys said, "Just ask my mom about Richard."

Now it was Henry's turn to feign anger, an act which just made Mark laugh more. "Wiseass," Henry said, glaring and attempting to look displeased. Mark just kept chuckling, though, and the blonde gave it up. "Man, whatever. If I really want to, I'll cut some loser's balls off, and _then_ I'll kill him."

"You fuckin' psycho," Mark laughed, shaking his head.

"Well, excuse me," Henry said with great sarcasm. "You haven't exactly been a good Christian yourself."

Mark made a face like he'd eaten something that disagreed with him. He shook his head disdainfully. "Re_ligion_. If there was a God, Henry, he'd have stopped us by now."

Henry shrugged. "That or he's as crazy as we are."

The auburn-haired boy looked at his brother as they walked, a little displeased. "Oh, so we're crazy?"

Henry just shook his head. "No, I mean by 'normal' standards."

Mark huffed in disdain for such people. "Dorks."

"Losers," Henry said, nodding in agreement.

After a few moments of silence, Mark thought of something else. "What about free will? Like, what if God lets people do whatever they want? Make their own choices?" That actually made a lot of sense to Mark, now that he thought about it. When _hadn't_ his decisions since last December been his own?

Henry shrugged. "Then there's no problem. Is there?"

They walked on, gradually entering the hills where Rockbridge's finest mansions could be found. After another ten minutes, the towering Gothic architecture of the imperious Fleetwood Hall began to become visible. In just a short minute or two, the boys were standing by the black, wrought-iron front gates.

Henry waved invitingly to Mark. "After you, brother," he said.

"Thank you, brother," Mark said with equally deliberate courtesy. The two boys smiled at each other briefly; each liked very much the newfound chance to use that word. It was no longer a term they had to keep secret, or avoid using around others despite the fact that 'cousin' had long ago become obsolete. They were brothers. So what if they had been born as cousins, and hadn't even met until they were 12? Nobody was going to bring that up now, not with Mark so clearly enjoying his friendship with Henry. The two boys were supporting each other through their strong bond; anyone could see that. If they saw each other as siblings in full rather than as adopted ones, nobody was gonna say anything against that. So Henry and Mark were brothers, in every sense that mattered.

Mark ducked down and crawled under the gates. They were locked as always, but that posed no real problem. The two boys were slim and had lean, athletic builds- the progress they had made on improving them in the past months was a source of real pride for both of them. Henry slipped under the gates just moments after Mark, who was looking at the house, fascinated. Those darkened windows- somehow, they didn't look empty.

"I feel like it's looking at us," Mark said faintly.

"It is," Henry said from beside him. "It is, Mark."

Mark wanted to go inside. Suddenly, he really, really wanted to go inside that towering house. It wasn't just a simple whim or want; it was a pull somewhere inside Mark, a longing he couldn't describe in words. Mark didn't feel like he was going to some dusty old mansion, some creepy old place where he was just gonna end up frightened and lost. Mark felt like he was coming home.

The boys walked across the icy, leaf-strewn front drive and up to the big double doors that guarded the entrance to Fleetwood Hall. This time when Henry stepped up to set a hand on one brass doorknob, Mark held out an arm. _He_ wanted to do this.

The auburn-haired boy gripped the old, ornate brass doorknob and closed his eyes, just as he'd seen Henry do the last time they were here. Abruptly- just as Henry had done- Mark felt himself seize up, and he trembled slightly as he stood there, concentrating on a single thought. Or rather two thoughts, similar and close together.

_I am safe here_, Mark thought. _I am home_.

Briefly Mark could have sworn something else was in his head; a cool, emotionless presence. If it was there at all, it was examining Mark- perhaps deciding if he was to be admitted as a guest or let in to be eaten as food. The thought surprised Mark, but it made sense. Henry had explained in detail how people tended to disappear in Fleetwood Hall- the house had a liking, it seemed, for feeding off death. Mark briefly made a note of this as he stood with his hand gripping the doorknob; perhaps the next time either of the brothers killed somebody, they could move the body here and leave it. The house, Mark sensed, would better appreciate a living body that died within its grounds- better food. Fresher that way. But dead was dead- and the Hall would remember its faithful.

"Ah!" Mark gasped suddenly; he had apparently forgotten to breathe in the time he'd been holding the door. His wrist jerked left as if by instinct, and the door swung inward and opened easily.

Henry was looking at Mark curiously. "You all right, Mark?"

Mark nodded, quite sure. He felt very well indeed. "Yeah, man. I feel great." He looked around, grinning as he surveyed the cavernous entrance hall as they walked in. "I like this place. Feel at home here. You know?"

Henry nodded. "Yeah. Sure do."

The boys hung up their coats in a closet the size of some lesser houses' bedrooms, talking easily all the while. They headed back out into the grand entrance hall, heading for the gigantic, polished hardwood staircase. The two boys climbed the stairs, chatting amicably. "Oh, Mark," Henry said, "I heard Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen the other day. They mentioned Alice Davenport. Said it might be good if you had a little therapy. See if you're okay."

Mark made a face, looking like his stomach was giving me trouble. "Don't mention that old fart to me, man."

"Well," Henry said with a sly smile, "I know how much you like talking to her."

"She doesn't believe in 'evil'," Mark said savagely. "Maybe I'll show her sometime."

"Accidents happen," Henry said with a grin. Mark looked at his brother, nodding as he understood, thinking about it a little.

_Accidents happen, all right. Maybe she'll have one herself soon, that Davenport woman. Maybe she'll figure out evil has many faces- some, even, are the faces of angels. But not the good kind. Not the nice ones_.

As they walked down the Corridor, heading along its vast length and admiring the fine wallpaper, carpeting, and many paintings on the walls, Henry and Mark each talked about their growing athletic prowess, bragging about how many pushups each one of them could do without stopping.

"You've done great the last couple months, Mark," Henry said with a smile. "Just think what it's gonna be like when we're in high school. All the weight we'll be able to lift!"

Mark laughed, smiling as he thought about it. "Man, I'm gonna sc-_fuck_ a girl every Friday," he bragged. "A _different_ girl."

Henry laughed, too, giving Mark a shove. "Now you're _dreaming_, dude."

Mark shoved him back. "Who got to first base first?"

The blonde ducked his head and headbutted his brother; the two fell to the floor, punching and kicking and immediately engaging in a wrestling match. Henry was immediately surprised only at how strong Mark was, but at how both boys seemed to go at each other with everything they had, fighting playfully but fiercely by instinct. They were like lion cubs; not the big-shots in town yet, but well on their way- and even play-fighting was a time to prepare them for the real thing.

Mark was a strong boy; he rolled on top of Henry once and gave him an affectionate punch in the mouth; Henry tasted copper and twisted fiercely, forcing Mark off him. This was insane! Henry's theory that the mansion had benefits for those strong enough to deserve them was definitely proving itself correct. Mark, it would seem, had gained quite a hefty boost on all fronts when Fleetwood Hall rewrote his mind. The auburn-haired boy wasn't just simply the old Mark with more spine; for once, for the first time in his life, Henry had met someone who was on every front his equal. Mark was as mean as Henry; he'd proved that when he burned down his own house, knowing perfectly well it would kill his father. He also no longer gave a shit that Henry had drowned his younger brother Richard, or about that dog Henry had killed. Mark had always been smart, but now he seemed to not only be able to follow Henry's complex, devious thinking but do plenty of it on his own. And Mark was in damn good shape these days. Henry, never a weak boy, had been working out steadily since his tenth birthday, and with his thirteenth coming up in August he'd really been stepping up his game. He'd been taking karate lessons for two years before Mark ever even considered starting, and yet here they were, battling it out in the Corridor as equals.

After perhaps a minute or two, the boys battled each other to an impasse and suddenly halted, panting and sweaty.

"Truce?" Henry asked, and Mark nodded. "Truce."

They got up and brushed each other off, heading on down the hall as if nothing had even happened.

"Mark?" Henry said, speaking softly as they walked through the silent mansion.

"Yeah?" Mark said, walking beside him. Mark couldn't understand his vague memory of being fearful, hesitant and ill-at-ease when he'd first come here last December. This house was amazing! It had everything he could want, the accommodations of a man so wealthy he could have shamed the King himself with his grandeur. Preston Whitmore's spirit had not been quite so enduring as his wife's, but he had done plenty well for himself. This house was the Versailles of Maine. It was abandoned, forgotten- but not decaying, and not dead. Just… sleeping.

Why had Mark been so afraid to come here a year ago? He couldn't understand it. He couldn't make sense of any of his memories from last December and before. Why had he been friends with Alan Parks, for instance? Ever? Why had he put up with that dork Wesley and his stupid jokes, or that asshole Sean Walters and his short-sighted, pointlessly cruel bullying schemes?

Mark didn't get it. It seemed, from his own memory and everyone else's- even Henry's, though he didn't mention it much- that prior to some point in December 1993, Mark Evans had been a timid, morally-righteous dweeb. A goody two-shoes who didn't like working out, never tried to visualize playing 'hide the sausage' with Megan Baker and- speaking of that- was probably not getting laid until college. At least.

Where had this old Mark come from, and where had he gone? How had the new one come into being, and why?

Not that Mark was complaining of course. He didn't just like who he was now; he loved it. He was an outstanding athlete, climbing a little higher on the social ladder every day. He was cool, confident, and in absolute control of himself and his life at all times. Never had Mark felt so good about who he was, or where his life was going. No, he didn't want to know why things had changed so he could go back and revert to who he'd been. Mark just wanted to know who was responsible for this change so he could thank them.

Speaking of which, the most likely suspect was beside Mark right now, speaking with a small smile on his face as he threw an arm around Mark's shoulder. The two were dressed almost identically; Henry wore a ruby-red sweater, Mark a midnight blue. Both wore gray German wool pants, perfect for use in the winter. And their jackets, of course, were velvety tan fabric lined on the inside with fur.

"I'm glad we became friends," Henry said, and the hint of powerful emotion in his voice told Mark right away his brother was telling the truth. Henry was very honest with Mark, even if he lied impulsively to everyone else. It was a trait Mark was glad to mimic perfectly.

"Me, too," Mark said, reaching up and messing with Henry's nice cut of blonde hair.

"Hey, hey!" Henry fussed, frowning. "Watch the hair, man. The babes like my hair."

Mark just laughed. "Femboy."

"Faggot."

A shoving match erupted then and the two almost began a second wrestling match, but just then Mark noticed a familiar door on their right. He knew which one it was because of that painting of a Duesenberg SJ they'd just passed on the right. That was where some switch or fusebox was, sitting behind the painting. As Henry by habit went to flip on the box- for some reason that almost seemed like a formality, since the gas or electric or whatever should have been off long ago- Mark headed for the door to the stairs.

He turned to look at Henry as he set his hand on the door and began to open it; Mark had to fight back laughter at Henry's look of absolute astonishment.

"How-how'd you know that?" Henry said, looking absolutely floored. "You were lost as _shit_ last time!"

Mark just snickered. "Oh, a lot's changed since last time, Henry. More than you can imagine."

Was that a flicker of fear he saw cross Henry's face?

But Mark just took a step forward and hugged his brother a little. "Come on, dork," he said affectionately. "Let's climb some stairs."

Seeing the genuine look of liking on Mark's face- it was such a relief, even now, to see that instead of Mark's constant fearfulness or suspicion of old- Henry relaxed. It sometimes took a little effort, a slight reminder, to remember Mark wasn't that self-righteous idiot he'd been last December. He was a new man now- aggressive, confident, and apparently right at home in Fleetwood Hall. His cruel, icy cunning was no threat to Henry- far from it. Mark's cruelty and anger were reserved for the foolish, the unlucky, and the weak. Henry was not only none of those things; he was Mark's brother. Mark would always be on his side.

_I gotta tell him what I did_.

The thought came out of nowhere- Henry had never had one like it before. But somehow, as the two boys began to climb the stairwell that led up to the third floor, Henry knew it made sense. Mark was a good friend to him, a brother. He deserved to be told the truth, even about the one thing Henry had sworn- as of last December- he would never tell Mark. He'd been afraid of losing what he'd gained. That if he told Mark what he did to him- what he gave Fleetwood Hall a chance to do- the old Mark would somehow come back. Henry would be forced to fight his brother, his friend- maybe even kill him. And then he'd be alone.

But Henry owed his brother the truth.

They climbed the stairs easily, the trek posing no physical challenge to either boy. They were some of the strongest 7th graders anywhere in their school, and with a full soccer season coming up in the fall, coupled with all those workouts they had to look forward to, Henry and Mark had every reason to expect to enter high school wearing muscle shirts, showing off the results of their hard work.

Henry fretted a little about what he was gonna say to Mark, and how. At a few moments he worried more than a little. But as the two headed upstairs, climbing a stairwell lined with rich, dark wood paneling and elegant wallpaper- lit by gas lights Henry had somehow forgotten to turn on the last time- Henry told himself not to worry. Any conflict that might come up between the brothers as a result of Henry telling Mark about the house, about what he'd done and the change it had forced in Mark, would have happened anyway. It was better to get it over with now, with the house to back him up. Hopefully.

"Hey, man," Mark said, poking his brother in his left side. "I got an idea for ya."

"What's that?" Henry asked as they reached the third floor landing and Mark- who again had known to stop here- headed to the door and opened it. He wasn't even fooled by the real door that stood immobile against a blank wall, one of a number of false doors that Great Aunt Eleanor had greatly enjoyed designing. Instead, Mark went for the blank stretch of wallpaper on the opposite side of the landing, crossing the stairs and finding the little space of wall you had to press to make the real door reveal itself.

As Mark did, and the door swung open to reveal another long, dimly-lit hallway, he answered his brother easily.

"You and me are gonna be friends with John."

"What? John La_Fleur_?" Henry asked, incredulous. "Dude- you sure you're talking about the right _guy_? Last karate lesson I kicked his ass into the middle of next _week_!"

"I'm talking about the right guy," Mark said as they started down the hallway, the door- on this side a perfectly normal door, though in this house "normal door" meant hand-carved oak, pine or mahogany- swinging shut behind them. "Look, he's an okay kid, isn't he?"

"He's not weak," Henry said, thinking about it. "But you still don't get it, dude. He ain't gonna want to be friends with me after I kicked him like that."

"Well," Mark said simply, "I'll talk to him first, then. You remember those tests you put me through, back when we first met?"

"Yeah," Henry said. He was hoping Mark didn't remember too much from those days…

But Mark just went on, "That's what I'm talking about, man. I'll just say he passed your test. Something like, 'My brother wanted to see if you were man enough to take a full-force kick and not tell Sensei about it, like a little girl. You did great'." Mark considered. "I'll even tell him about the night we met-"

"_Gay_," Henry droned, and giggled like a kid at Mark's momentary irritation.

"I'll tell him about the night we first met," Mark went on with some effort. "How you kicked me in the shin under the table, to see if I had what it took to be your friend."

Henry was silent for a few moments as they walked down the hallway, heading for the entrance to the Glass Library, at the end of the long hallway- Fleetwood Hall had a lot of those- and just around the corner.

"That might work," he said. Then he smiled, throwing an arm around Mark's steadily-growing shoulders and ruffling his hair, just as Mark had recently done to him. "That's why you're my brother."

"Just think about it, man," Mark said, trying to hide how pleased he was that Henry liked the plan. "LaFleur's on the soccer team with you, right?"

"Yeah."

"Think of him as your first real teammate. He'll be the first friend you make in school, and from him there'll be others. I'll be on the team in the fall, too. You and me will help him with soccer, help him with karate- he'll be _so_ glad he met us."

Henry just smiled, repeating his earlier words. "That's why you're my brother."

The Glass Library was huge, cavernous; as big as Mark was getting to be, it nevertheless made him feel small again. But not in a bad way. Nothing like that. Instead, Mark felt like the deeper he went in this giant house, the safer he was. The domed ceiling still stood arched high above, that priceless English chandelier hanging down from the exact center of it, casting a brilliant glow all over the room. The circular shape of the room, which had to have a diameter of at least five hundred feet across, was just amazing. Naturally-dark green glass bookshelves lined the walls, holding hundreds if not thousands of books. The wide-open empty space of the floor was mirror glass; Mark looked down and saw a perfect reflection of his own image, and Henry's beside him. The glass was flawless, perfect- like it had been cleaned two minutes ago instead of having lain essentially untouched for decades. Some parts of the house appeared dusty, preserved but in some ways aged. Not here, though. Not the Glass Library. Much of the house as a whole was perhaps resting, waiting for better, more vibrant times again. But the Glass Library was alive.

"Houses are alive, you know," Henry said reflectively, his voice taking on a strange, distant tone. "Everybody knows it. It's news from our nerves."

Mark just looked at his brother, too intrigued at the moment to interrupt him. Henry wandered slowly into the room, gazing up at the dome, the chandelier- looking around.

The room was utterly silent. For just a moment, Mark was sure he heard the faintest whispers out in the hallway- like a phantom draft had somehow learned to talk.

"If we're quiet, Mark," Henry said softly, "we can hear houses breathe. In the middle of the night, if you listen- you can hear them groan sometimes. Some houses hate normal people. Blindly hate our so-called 'humanity'. Only for a few can a place like that be called home."

Henry turned to his brother, an odd gleam in his eyes. "This house is home for us, Mark."

Mark was fascinated. He was welcome here; he could _feel_ it. He knew the history of Fleetwood Hall as well as Henry; this place had a blind, all-consuming hate for humanity that made it dangerous like no other place on Earth. In a normal mansion, the worst you could get was lost. In a haunted place, mansion or not, the commonplace disbelief in ghosts and supernatural things would serve you well, acting as a sort of protection.

But not here.

The auburn-haired boy could sense something about this house. It wasn't 'haunted' in any normal, cheap-horror-movie sense of the word. There was something very different here. But whatever it was, it didn't hate Mark. Or Henry. They were okay. They were strong enough to deserve the Hall's accepting their presence. Perhaps even embracing it.

"This house is alive, Mark," Henry said, his eyes bright with that strange, dancing light. He had spent years piecing together the knowledge he held now, taken months trying things out, experimenting- and now he was sure.

"You mean, it knows we're here? Like that?" Mark asked, so fascinated he could barely remember his words.

"Sure it does," Henry nodded. "It likes us, Mark. It likes you."

Henry sat down on the floor, propping himself up on his hands as he leaned back. He reached over and patted some mirror glass beside him. "Have a seat, Mark," he said, smiling warmly.

"Thanks," Mark smiled back, sitting down and leaning back with his hands propped up behind him.

"So, Mark," Henry said warmly, "Did I ever tell you how I went under the floor a while back? When I was eleven?"

"No," Mark shook his head.

"Well," Henry began, "I didn't do it right off. When I was ten, I took a nap in the Grand Library once."

"That's the big one, down on the second floor," Mark said.

"Sure is, Mark," Henry nodded, again surprised at Mark's apparent knowledge of the house.

"I fell asleep in this really nice chair. Just a couple of minutes. I felt great when I woke up- I'd had a cough and all that, but it was gone the next day. So I went back again, and this one time after that I slept in one of the master bedrooms."

Henry smiled at the memory.

"It worked really well. Somehow, Mark, I just felt even better. Like I wasn't wasting time on, you know, that weakness. That need to sleep. I felt like that nap- just an hour or two- helped me a lot. So I tried something else- a third test. This time I went all the way up here. Just thought, why not? I'll just sleep on the floor of the only library in the world with a floor of mirror-glass." Henry smiled a little. "Who gets to do that, right?"

"Only us," Mark smiled back.

"So I did," Henry continued. "I just walked in here, looked around for a little while." Henry glanced up. "Looked at that awesome chandelier." The blonde thought for a moment. "Well, what I did was, I just lay down, like this." He lay flat on his back, calm and relaxed as you please. Mark looked down at him, mesmerized.

Henry went on, "I wasn't sure what happened, at first. I was even a little scared. But after a few minutes of me lying there, relaxed, my eyes closed… something happened. I went somewhere, Mark. And for a while, it was like I was in the house. Like it was in me. And I felt… good." Henry smiled wistfully, reliving the sweet memory of that awesome discovery. "I felt strong."

Looking at his brother, Henry had an expression of real seriousness- real intent. "I'm sure about something, Mark. This house can help us. It can make us smart, make us strong- I think it even cleans out our lungs." Henry shrugged a little. "How do you think we can go on lighting up a pack whenever we want?" Then he grinned. "Or packing on all that muscle like we're doing?"

Mark paused. This was… _amazing_. Like nothing he'd ever heard in his life. Had it been anyone else, Mark would have kicked them in the nuts for wasting his time with such a crazy story. But this wasn't anybody else; this was Henry. This was his friend.

"So," Mark said slowly, "Fleetwood Hall can _help_ us? Physically, mentally? That kinda thing?"

Henry nodded.

"Well," Mark began, "What happens with the floor?"

"You gotta lie on your back, Mark," Henry said, still doing so himself. "You gotta relax, close your eyes- don't worry about anything. This floor isn't always solid." Henry added those last words with a sly smile, like he was sharing some secret just for the two of them.

"So…" Mark said as he began to get the idea, "We'll… go _under_ the floor?"

Henry nodded.

Suddenly, Mark sat up and looked at his cousin sharply. He'd figured something else out, too. "Is that what you did with _me_?"

Henry sat up too, his blue eyes wide and startled. "Hey," he said carefully, "don't get mad. I'm just telling you I like to investigate. It's scientific."

But Mark was having none of that. He stood and grabbed Henry by two fistfuls of his nice, expensive sweater, hand-knitted by some overpaid fashion designer in New Hampshire. Forcing Henry to his feet so fast it made the blonde's head swim, Mark barked a demand in his brother's face.

"Is that why I was such a dork before?" Mark asked. "Is that what you did? Put me under the floor so this house could- _do_ something?"

Henry stared back, wide-eyed and clearly afraid to answer.

"You fucking _tell_ me!" Mark yelled, then calmed a little, lowering his voice just a bit. But his next question was still a demand. "Did you put me under the floor when we came here last time?"

The blonde stood inches from Mark, his face pulled close to his brother's. Terrified thoughts of losing everything he'd gained ran through Henry's mind. He felt his palms grow sweaty, and for possibly the first time ever felt like he was experiencing real fear. Death, injury, the cops- none of it really mattered. But what if some memory had come back? What if something about coming back here- about Henry revealing what he knew about Fleetwood Hall- had triggered something in Mark?

What if the brother he'd worked so hard to gain was about to leave him forever?

_If that's what he does_, Henry vowed silently, _I'm gonna hang myself tomorrow_.

But if that was what needed to be done, Henry would do it. He had never been one to back away from the tasks that had to be accomplished. But for now, he had no way of knowing. Mark could just be demanding an answer so he had the information- and so he had just one more piece of proof that Henry would never lie to him. Or he could be reverting back to his old self. There was no way of knowing, and Henry knew delaying or lying when he gave an answer would only make things worse.

"What if I did?" Henry asked finally; he noticed a quaver in his voice he'd never heard before. He was truly afraid of what Mark might do- of what might very well happen next.

For a few moments, time seemed to stand still. Mark was still gripping to fistfuls of Henry's sweater, and that angry look was still there in his eyes.

Henry barely had time to notice before Mark wrapped his arms around his brother, embracing him in a bear-hug so fierce Henry feared for the integrity of his ribs. His breath went out of him in a rush.

"Thank you, man," Mark said in a voice quivering with emotion. "Thank you!"

Henry sighed with relief, surprised he had any air left to do it with. After a moment, he realised that sigh had halfway been a sob. Not a weak or cowardly one- it was a sob of relief. Of joy.

"Glad to help," Henry gasped, hugging his brother back.

"I was such a wuss," Mark almost sobbed. "I was so afraid. You saved me."

"I'm so glad you're my brother, Mark," Henry said as his brother loosened his grip a little, remembering the blonde needed to breathe. "It means a lot to me." Never, ever before in his life had Henry even known how to say that. Now not only could he find the words to say… he wanted to.

Finally, the two boys lay down on the floor of the Glass Library, just a foot or two apart and directly parallel to each other. Henry lay on his back, his face up to the domed ceiling and his hands folded over his taut belly. He was developing a bit of a six-pack there. Nothing real impressive, not just yet- but getting there. With some small envy Henry realised Mark was probably farther along. The Hall had been kind to Mark, indeed- and Mark had done plenty of work on his own.

Henry closed his eyes, able to hear the sound of Mark breathing quietly beside him.

The floor became soft, like water. In just a moment, the two boys slipped underneath.

It was hard, the first moment or two after you went under for the first time, not to panic. To instinctively freak out, wondering what the hell just happened- and if you weren't somehow in danger. Henry stayed calm, though, and beside him so did Mark. Henry didn't need to look or anything like that, didn't need to check. He just knew.

As he entered that odd, wonderfully pleasant dreamlike state you went into under the mirror-glass floor, Henry felt the most incredible sensation about him. In moments it entered his nostrils, slipping in through his mouth and touching his lungs. It was the cool of a creek in the summer- the refreshing cold without the harshness or oppressive water that could make you drown. It was warm, at the same time- warm without being hot. And cool, without being cold. It was amazing- and Henry could feel how good it was for him, knitting strength and energy into his very bloodstream. It was amazing.

And there was something else, too- something Henry had never felt before. There was someone else here- another presence in his mind. And at the same time, Henry felt like he was a presence in theirs. Like the two were… connected.

Henry had a feeling who it was. And this time he had no fear- he wouldn't have it any other way. The blonde boy had hated his life, all those years he'd been alone. He hadn't realised it, but had that auburn-haired boy not walked into his life last year, Henry probably would have hung himself on his thirteenth birthday. Dead of boredom- and an utterly empty life.

Someone had saved him from that. It was good… to finally have a friend. A brother. Henry had taken so many risks with Mark, gone to so much trouble he never would have even _considered_ doing for anyone else. But he _had_- because, somehow, Henry had _known_ it would be worth it.

There was one more experiment to do for today. One more test to conduct, and Henry was sure he knew what the outcome would be. Reaching out to the other presence, to the other mind he felt nearby him, Henry asked- without speaking a single word- one sentence.

_You there, Mark_?

A familiar voice answered him.

_Always_.

**Notes:**

**I'd like to give a special thanks to two users here. ComedyMonarchy, for posting that review or two that ultimately encouraged me to finish this story's predecessor, "The Second Face", rather than leave it unfinished or scrap it as I'd originally been planning to do. I had gotten hung up on the first story, unsure of how to deal with the issue of 'changing' Mark. He was so different a person he would have never joined Henry willingly. I got stuck on that long enough that I almost abandoned the story completely, but ComedyMonarchy's review made me think twice about scrapping it. I wrote on and so "The Second Face" was finished.**

**The story almost ended there. I honestly was pleased at how my alternate version of "The Good Son" turned out, but had no ideas for or intention of writing a sequel. Again, a single user on this great website intervened. AM83220 posted a glowing review of "The Second Face", telling me in no uncertain terms that the story- and the ideas I'd come up with- had great potential for continuation. I then reconsidered on not writing a sequel. AM83220 acted as my sounding board, proofreader, and helped me immensely in getting through a story I would have probably taken forever to get done by myself. Instead I finished "The Evil Angel" in about a month. The Word document of it is 166 pages, the longest document I've ever written. I want to note AM83220 not only as a great help to me in my own writing, and someone who I really cannot thank enough for their help in writing this story. But AM83220 is also a writer on this website, with 6 stories of his own. I just finished reading "And a Teenager Shall Lead Them" and it's one of the best pieces of fanfiction I've ever read.**

**My sincerest thanks and compliments to these two users. Without them neither "The Second Face" nor "The Evil Angel" would ever have been written.**

**On a minor note, by two stories on "The Good Son" have both used an alternate title from the film's releases. The 1993 movie "The Good Son" was released in several countries besides the United States of America. These included France, Spain, and Germany. In Germany, the movie was titled "Das Zweite Gesicht", literally "The Second Face". I thought that title quite brilliant, since it no doubt refers to the two faces Henry has to show the world. In Spain, the movie had two titles, apparently. One was "El Buen Hijo", simply "The Good Son" in Spanish. But another name it had was "El Malvado Angel", translating to "The Evil Angel". I liked that title enough, too, that I used it as my title for my first follow-up story to the events of the original film.**

**Any story I write after this will very likely be rated M, so keep that in mind. A teenage and later perhaps adult Henry and Mark would most definitely be something that would involve violent and sexual content. There is a lot you can do with a T rating if you're careful, but that would not make sense with a story about two child socio/psychopaths.**

**Lastly, keep in mind that Fleetwood Hall as I depict it has many basic similarities to the Seattle, Washington mansion of Rose Red from the TV miniseries "Stephen King's Rose Red". That is the scariest damn haunted house I've ever seen. Some aspects of Fleetwood Hall, however, are entirely original- most notably its almost friendly attitude towards Henry and now Mark. Fleetwood Hall will be a hindrance and even a danger to most people, but that's because it's meaner than hell. If someone were to show up who is just as cold-hearted as the house, it doesn't mind as much. Plus, remember I noted that Mark and Henry are relatives of the Whitmore family- and in particular Helen Whitmore, for whom the house was built. Like Rose Red, Fleetwood Hall is always more welcoming to those it regards as family.**

**Lastly, understand some things about the changes in Henry and Mark. Henry, being a born sociopath, has grown up incapable of understanding normal human emotions. Things like love, sorrow and regret are alien emotions to him, and the thrill of danger and selfish acts that bring him pleasure are some of the only things Henry truly feels. His early explorations in Fleetwood Hall only benefit him, as the house poses no threat to someone as cold and mean as Henry. The house can put some of its evil directly into Henry, because he's as mean as the Hall is.**

**But Mark, being the true "good son" of the original story, never could have been corrupted that way. To change Mark and make him more like Henry, altering his emotional and mental state to make him incapable of feeling remorse or guilt and having a similar disposition to his cousin, Fleetwood Hall had to do an exchange. It took some of Mark's soul and placed it in Henry, and put some of Henry in Mark. The ultimate goal was to change Mark, and this was successful. But the house inadvertently changed Henry, too- he can now feel many of the same emotions Mark can. In some ways, his emotional blankness of the past has been fixed, but in a very limited way- he only feels any real concern or liking for Mark.**


End file.
